Ride the Lightning

by Dietrich Kalteis

  “You still over at that place on Homer?” Pinkie remembered where he used to take her.

  Miro spelled out his address since coming back to town. “Key’s in my pocket.”

  “This Bruna chick live with you?” Pinkie asked, Miro saying no, she was just a hooker that worked downstairs, meant nothing to him.

  Loop dug into Miro’s pocket, coming up with a key ring, asking, “Which one?”

  Miro nodded when he held up the right key, Loop asking what the other keys were for. Miro told him most were from Seattle.

  “And the car keys?”

  “My Challenger.”

  “You mean my Challenger.”

  Miro said sure, it was his, not saying it was back in Seattle.

  “That his right address?” Pinkie held the paper down to Mitch, Mitch looking at it, nodding.

  Loop said to Pinkie, “Still say we should do these assholes.”

  “Do it then,” she said, her eyes going to Miro. “But you answer for it, along with the dog.”

  Miro called her a bitch, paying the price, Loop grabbing his hair, slamming his head down again, yanking him to his feet, slamming him against the wall, sticking the barrel against his broken nose. This was the moment: he was going to shoot him.

  “On the way back, stop at the Ruddy Potato and get a bag of French ground; we’re out.” Pinkie said it like she didn’t care what Loop did.

  “Me and Stax are like this,” Miro said to Loop. “Fuck with me, you fuck with him.”

  “You want the fine grind?” Loop asked her, pressing the barrel against Miro’s nose, making him scream.

  Pinkie’s cell rang. She hooked the shotgun and reached for the phone.

  The side door flew open with a crash, the knob gouging into the wall. Wally threw himself at the stairs, pistol in both hands in front of him. Pinkie was swinging the Mossberg, Loop turning. Wally fired first.

  Loop was slammed back into the wall, blocking any clear shot Pinkie had, Miro dropping. Pinkie pumped a round over the counter, taking out the broom closet and the railing, racking and firing again.

  Loop pressed back against the wall, trying to stay on his feet. Wally shot him again, jumping up and grabbing him as he fell, getting behind him and firing into the kitchen, taking out the Florida light. Bakelite and glass rained down, the room pitched in darkness.

  Backing into the grow room, Pinkie racked the slide, Mitch kicking out a foot, causing her to stumble, the Mossberg going off, blasting out the bank of thousand-watt grow lights, punching holes through both propane tanks.

  The fireball matched anything the warhead would have done, rocking the house, blowing out the windows, blasting Pinkie through the grow room like she was on guy wires, her body slamming into the far wall. The plants fueled the flames that ate the house, spreading to the shed and ferns and brush and pines.

  who did ike?

  “Bitch said you were upping it to a bear trap,” Miro said to Stax, gritting his teeth, looking at the mess of his leg resting on the coffee table, the pain incredible, shooting up into his knee. The dried blood and ripped flesh looked right out of Jaws. His broken nose made him wheeze, sounded whiny when he talked. He gripped his thigh while Bruna swabbed cotton against the raw meat.

  “Jesus, take it easy,” he cried out, twisting his face at the sting of hydrogen peroxide, growling like an animal.

  “That stupid bitch was stoned half the time,” Stax said, sitting on the sofa, unconcerned about the leg, thinking Miro was a wimp, watching Bruna play nurse with the swab. “And you go believing the shit coming out of her mouth.”

  “How about your spring-loaded knife for fuck’s sake?”

  “Yeah, Loop changed that a while ago,” Stax said. “Forgot about it.”

  Miro flinched, slapping at Bruna on account of the stinging.

  “How about you drag your whining ass to emergency?” she said, slapping back.

  Stax got off the sofa, easing her aside, getting in Miro’s face. “And who the fuck told them to take Ike?”

  “How should I know?” Miro grabbed the swab away from Bruna, told her she was done, told her to get something to wrap the leg, saying to Stax, “I told Artie long time ago, those two were worth shit. He ever listen? No, he did not.” The scene at the grow house flashed through his mind: Pinkie firing the Mossberg, the fireball, Pinkie hurled through the living room, Wally dragging him and Mitch out the back door, the whole place going up, all that weed feeding the flames.

  Stax leaned close, clapping a hand above Miro’s ankle, inches from the raw meat. “So, tell me again, who did Ike?”

  Miro cried out and tried to twist away, but couldn’t. “Already told you, as soon as we go in, Mitch knocks me down the stairs, goes all nuts and starts shooting, puts one in Ike.”

  “With the gun you sold him?”

  “Then he got Loop; who knows, maybe Loop hit Ike?”

  “And you weren’t shooting?”

  “I told you I got pushed down, lost my piece. When I got back up, got my leg in your fucking number four trap. Look at this hamburger. Jesus.”

  “The perfect stupid guys, you said.”

  “They were your mules, remember? And who told you the shit’d go down at Western? Me, aiiyyeeeee . . .”

  Stax squeezed the leg, saying, “That was the word I got from inside, yeah.” Then he thumped a finger against Miro’s chest. “Ike never did nothing to nobody.”

  “Yeah, he was a sweet guy,” Miro said, thinking if he hadn’t shot it, the psycho dog would have had Mitch’s arm down to a stump.

  Bruna came back with Polysporin and a Telfa pad, wedging herself between the two men, telling the big man to go sit down over there, let her do her work. Stax stepped back, and Miro knocked the stuff out of her hand, telling her to stop with the Florence Nightingale horseshit and go get some beers, Bruna telling him to fuck off, saying she hoped they amputated the leg, told him if he wanted beer to hop to the fridge. Then she went in the bedroom, slamming the door.

  “Girlfriend’s all heart,” Stax said, and went and got the beer. “So it was this Wally guy, huh?”

  “I told you it was Mitch.” Miro took the can, popped the tab. “Wally was in the van drooling over the fucking rocket launcher.”

  “Right, Mitch,” Stax said it like he was being handed a load of crap.

  wreck beach

  Funny time to be thinking about her, on his way to see Artie Poppa on a nude beach. But Karl was thinking about her all the time now, drawing her face in his mind, the sea-green eyes, the auburn hair, the way their bodies came together, realizing he was in love with her.

  A name on the Vancouver drug scene, this Artie Poppa had ties to the Mexican drug cartel, networked into a web of biker distribution all down the coast. What Karl didn’t know was why Artie wanted to see him on a nude beach. But what do you do? A guy like that has his goon call and wants a face to face, you don’t say no. Karl guessed Poppa must have heard about his reputation, heard the if-your-man’s-breathing line. Truth be told, Karl missed the excitement of playing with the bad guys.

  He threw the Roadster into park next to the “clothing optional” sign on top of the bluff. A notice waved next to it, announcing something called the Bare Buns Run coming up.

  Stax had called in the morning, told him Artie wanted to see him at two, Karl asked why and why there, Stax repeated the time and place, asked if he got it and hung up. Karl guessed it was the kind of place that made it tough to wear a wire or hide a piece.

  Pine trees hung over the bluffs, blocking the view of the Pacific, swaying in the breeze coming inland. Cold for this time of year. Parking next to Artie’s Cadillac, Karl left the Taser under the insurance papers in the glovebox, guessing he’d have the naked folk edgy—a guy walking around with fifty thousand volts of frying power.

  Letting Johnny Cash finish “Hurt,” he swi
tched off the Blaupunkt, locked up and started down the escarpment, over four hundred and seventy stairs. The same stairs Bob Young took when he made the serve with the envelope between his cheeks. He told Karl his thighs ached for a week.

  Nearing the bottom, Karl understood what Bob meant, his own thighs felt on fire. Doughy bodies, some sitting, some lying, the odd one baked leather brown. Karl thinking it was a world of its own down here, quiet and hidden below the university lands, away from the city’s static.

  Along the tree line stood Vendors’ Row, a stretch of umbrellas and portable tables. Sandwiches and drinks, Native blankets, Swedish massage, pot and X under the table, whatever you wanted. The place reminded Karl of a time of free love in the sixties, a time before his. There was a vibe about it he liked.

  His sneakers brimmed with sand by the time he spotted them, the grit getting between his toes. An old man on a beach blanket with his goon standing over him. A middle-aged guy looking like Ray Winstone in dreadlocks sat on a Coleman near them, banging on a conga, his gut jiggling, his wife strumming on a six-string. Eyes squeezed shut, she dished up a Ziggy Marley number about sailing to Jamaica. Their towheaded twins were busy building a city in the sand, looking up as Karl approached.

  The goon was Stax; he stepped over to the Ray Winstone guy and said something to him. Ray and his wife stopped playing and packed up the kids and moved down the beach. Artie peeled off his shades, Ricardo Montalbán looks with the coldest eyes Karl had ever seen framed by a uni brow. A silver cross on a chain hung around his neck, the cross looking upside down, with the cross tie closer to the bottom than the top.

  “Karl Morgen?” Artie said it was good of him to come, his accent barely there.

  Karl offered his hand, surprised by the grip of the gnarled hand, guessing Artie knew hard labor in a younger day. Standing behind Artie, Stax was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, fitting it like liverwurst in its casing. Karl checked himself in the goon’s wraparound shades. The twin images were distorted, leaving Karl wondering was he really that white.

  “Good place to get your vitamin D,” Artie said, Karl’s paleness not lost on him, motioning for Stax to stop blocking his sun.

  “Get it places you don’t even want it,” Karl said, taking off his sneakers, shaking out the sand.

  “Good place to see if anyone’s got bugs, too,” Stax said, motioning for Karl to turn around, his own wire sewn inside the pocket of his jeans, Miro listening in. Nothing special about this guy. Middle-aged and going bald. No big deal he dragged Miro off some couch in Belltown. The cockiness reminded Stax of the guy who owed Artie ten grand two days too long, Stax going to collect it, the guy telling him to come back when he finished lunch. Stax knocked away the guy’s grilled cheese, dragged him over and pressed his head against the stove’s coil, turned it on, saying to let him know when he was ready to pay up. Branding a spiral across the guy’s cheek, he got Artie’s ten grand just like that.

  Karl held his hands out and did a turn. Stax patted him down, hoping he’d try some shit like he pulled on Miro.

  “Stax tells me you’re good at finding people,” Artie said.

  “Heard that, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Stax said. “Some shyster lawyer in Seattle says you got a reputation like that TV guy, Dog.”

  “Gave that up. Got myself a healthy line of work.”

  “Ah, a man’s health . . .” Artie shook his head. “Without it he has nothing.” Artie tapped his own chest, Karl seeing the two-inch scar on the left breast. “Have a cardioverter-defibrillator planted here, keeps me ticking.”

  “That like a pacemaker?”

  “A pacemaker corrects the heart rate. My little friend gives a jolt if the beat goes too fast or slow. Never ate a donut in my life, you believe that?” Artie looked to the sun and shrugged. “Now I eat like a rabbit, take meds and I’m in bed by ten.”

  “Maybe just bad luck,” Karl said.

  “Cardiologist says it’s bad genes; me, I blame stress in the workplace.”

  Karl looked at the waves rolling onto the sand. What did Artie expect, a cushy life with a pension?

  “So now I breathe the sea air, feel it tickle my balls.”

  “Guess there are worse things,” Karl said, his eyes going to Artie’s upside-down cross again, wishing he’d get on with it, knowing he wasn’t here for a dick-swing and a reminisce.

  Artie noticed him looking at the cross, asking if he was a religious man.

  “Not so you’d notice.”

  “It’s a Peter cross,” Artie said and held it up to Karl. “On account they crucified St. Peter head down.”

  “Head down, huh?”

  Stax told him yeah, those Romans could really torture a man, make it last for days.

  “Guess Jesus got off lucky,” Karl said.

  Artie said it was no joke, tapping the scar on his chest. “Things become clear to a man after he comes this close.”

  “Yeah, look, I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Poppa,” Karl said. “But see, I burn easy.”

  Artie told him about Jeffery Potts getting killed at a place of his in North Van, then what looked like a pair of plumbers broke into his own house up in the Properties, shot it up while his useless dog stood by. “Then two nights ago, some cabrónes, maybe the same ones, broke into another place of mine, burned it to the ground.” Artie glanced over his shoulder in the direction of Bowen Island. “A small fortune went up in smoke.”

  “Think I read about it,” Karl said, remembering the headlines in the Sun. “Take it the place wasn’t insured?”

  Artie’s tight grin said he was getting tired of Karl being cute, saying the ones that did it took the spoons from the mouths of his children and left him with one associate dead, another in the burn unit at Vancouver General.

  “And killed my dog,” Stax said.

  “This the same dog?”

  “Different one,” Artie said, looking to Stax, then saying to Karl, “You get me the names, you make me a happy man.”

  “Why not let the cops handle it?”

  Stax asked if he was kidding.

  “Okay, let’s say I find them, then what?”

  “You point your finger and five grand lands in your hand,” Artie said. “Five a head if you’re pointing more than a finger, fact, make it an even twenty.”

  Karl knew Artie was telling, not asking, but he asked him anyway. “Why not use your own people?” Nodding at Stax.

  Down the beach, a fat couple walked along hand in hand, their stomachs hanging like inner tubes. They stopped over by the Ray Winstone clan, all of them glancing over, then quickly away.

  “To the authorities I am a man of interest, that is how they say it.” Artie’s eyes followed the fat couple as they continued over to the vendors’ tables.

  “Not sure I’m your best bet,” Karl said. “I mean, I’m retired from all that.”

  Artie snapped his fingers and said to Stax, “What’s that name?”

  “Named him Ike.”

  Artie looked up at him like he was an idiot.

  “PJ Addie,” Stax said, reciting her address, adding it was right off Commercial, liking the way the smug melted off Karl’s face.

  bottom feeding

  Karl’s stomach gave a growl, he picked at the shared antipasto. Pissed at the way Artie and Stax played him, he wanted to tell PJ about the meeting on Wreck Beach, wanted to have it all out there, wanted her safe—but couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

  On her own tangent, she was excited about the gifts she brought, eager for him to tear away the gift wrap. The Neck and Neck disc was her way of weening him off the hardcore hick tunes. She loved Knopfler’s licks back when he was with Dire Straits, this album with Atkins every bit as good, only mellow in an old-school sort of way, right up Karl’s alley. The second gift wrapped in red tissue was the Jamie Oliver cookbook, the one with the tik
ka masala recipe.

  He kissed her, feeling kind of bad, had no idea six months was an anniversary.

  Lunch arrived, the waiter holding the plates, asking her, “Gnocchi?”

  She answered, “Who’s there?”

  Karl was still laughing when the waiter left, gagging on his calzone, the mushrooms he asked the waiter to hold tasting like earthy cardboard. Chasing it down with some of PJ’s Beaujolais Cru, he tried again to tell her about Artie. But PJ was on her second glass, loose talking about a case Walt Wetzel had her working on, filing punitive damages for some granny shopper that went down on a wet Safeway floor, not an orange pylon in sight. Karl grimaced at the thought of the old girl needing a double hip, PJ saying her boss Walt was doing his personal crusader bit, getting a little media out of it, a total ham in front of the Global News camera.

  “Walt wear a cape and tights when he talks out of both sides of his mouth?” Karl liking the guy less every time he heard his name.

  “Does it as easy as breathing,” she said, sipping her wine, pulling the pimento from an olive and popping it in her mouth. “Walt sniffs out negligence and lost wages like a police dog. No stopping him—acts like he’s doing people favors, and all he gives a shit about is maximum compensation.”

  “Sounds like you need a break.” The pieces to a dead lawyer joke came together in Karl’s head, but this wasn’t the time. PJ went on about how Walt sued the city for negligence last year for not posting warning signs about waves at the aquatic center. Won two hundred K because his ten-year-old client swallowed water other kids allegedly peed in.

  “Lot of dough for an alleged schluck,” Karl said, letting her unload, still aiming to tell her, topping up her glass for the third time. “How do I explain to Mother my girl works for an ambulance chaser?”

  “Your girl, huh?”

  “Yeah.” He looked at her, liking the reaction.