“Making a pit stop first,” Stax said, driving up Lillooet, past trees and parked cars, a forest fire rating sign, not far from the construction site where Wolf Klinger ended up buried inside a chemical toilet. He told Wally to relax.
Wally said he was cool, feeling fear like never before.
Stax drove by a sign for Lynn Canyon Park, nobody around. Wally had his hand on the door handle, palm wet with sweat, forgetting Stax locked the doors.
“You want, grab another beer,” Stax told him, aiming a thumb at the backseat.
“I’m good. Thanks.”
Nothing but tall pines around them as the road narrowed. Stax pulled to the side of a turnaround, signs on a post marking the trails.
Wally kept his hand on the handle, getting set.
“Going to ask one more time: who shot Ike?” Stax took the Python from under the seat, Wally recognizing it, the same one he took from Jeffery Potts.
“Told you it was Popeye,” he said, then he jerked the handle. Couldn’t get out.
Stax smiled, liked seeing Wally panic, hitting a button, unlocking the doors. Wally was out the door, running for all he was worth across the road, heading for the trail.
Counting ten, Stax got out like he had all day, leveling the six-inch barrel across the roof, wishing he’d brought a shovel.
The first bullet put Wally down at the edge of the turnaround. Stax walked across the road, thinking the Python had a nice bark to it.
Wally rolled on his back, blood pouring from his side, putting up his hands. “It wasn’t me.”
“I know.” Stax shot him again.
Grabbing Wally by the ankles, he heard a vehicle approaching. No time to drag him off into the woods.
the fine line home
He came in through the mudroom, the alarm still down, the house dark.
Going through the main floor with the Walther cocked, he checked for the safe, taking the Chivas from the trolley in the living room, hoping for liquid courage, keeping an eye out for Artie Poppa’s giant dog. Finding nothing, he went to the basement. Again nothing.
Upstairs, he checked the bedrooms, the den, the laundry, then the master suite. He stripped off his wet clothes; with Artie dead and the wife in Korea, he considered taking his time. The broken glass was gone from the shower stall. Standing in there, getting the water as hot as he could stand, would give him time to think where the safe could be, but it would take too long. Even a quick shower was risky. Looking at Artie’s bed, he resisted melting into the mattress, pulling the covers to his neck, the bed cleaner than his own at the double-wide: the yellowed sheets he never changed, the lumpy pillow with its funky smell. A twenty-minute catnap under the archangel and he’d be a new man.
Rubbing his palms over his face, what Tolley used to call a bachelor’s wash, he drank down more Chivas, hoping to keep his stomach from bubbling. Feeling the alcohol buzz, he went looking through the closet for something to wear, everything far too small.
Thinking how Miro had called the archangel over the bed Jesus, he tried to settle his nerves by talking out loud to it, Mitch calling it Michael, telling it about some CNN report about the King Kong–sized Jesus that got struck by lightning someplace in Ohio; carved out of wood, the thing burned to a cinder. Wringing water from his pant legs, he was saying that the Jesus was asking for it, having his hands raised like that.
Tipping the bottle, the liquid fire rolling down his throat, he caught a glint of something on the wall behind Michael. Putting the bottle on the nightstand, standing on the mattress, he lifted the carving down, heavier than it looked. He laid it on the bed, and the Sentry safe stared him in the face. Digging the key from his pocket, he held his breath, heard it scrape as he pushed it in. It fit the lock.
“Jesus,” he said, staring dumbfounded at the combination next to the key lock. A key lock and a combination. Giving the dial a spin, he tried to work through the Chivas fog. Artie must have jotted the numbers somewhere—a kid’s birth date, an anniversary or something like that.
Going through all the drawers again, then knocking Michael to the floor, he flipped the mattress. Nothing. Hurrying to the den and the other bedrooms, he flipped the rest of the mattresses, rifled every drawer, checked behind every piece of furniture, under the Persian rug in the hall, felt along the top of shelves, the medicine cabinets. Nothing.
Downstairs, he tore through the front hall closet, then the kitchen drawers, pulling everything from the pantry, cereal boxes, cans of tomatoes and sauce, bags of rice and pasta—everything tossed on the floor, the room still smelling like gym socks. He walked down the hall, checking inside the grandfather clock, behind it. Following the plastic runner back into the living room, he flapped through the romance paperbacks above the fireplace, some in English, some in Korean. Then he rifled through a stack of CDs by some guy named Rain, the Wonder Girls and some chick called Navi, Korean type all over the covers. The last one was Sweet Sweet by Burton Cummings, an old favorite of Ginny’s from his days in the Hat. He tossed all but the Burton into the fireplace and grabbed the poker.
Back upstairs, he put the CD with his Walther on the dresser. Then he dug at the drywall around the edges of the Sentry with the poker. Spiking it into the wall, he jimmied and pried from all sides, striking the steel-reinforced wall studs. He remembered Miro talking about the Mexican drug lord hiding millions in his walls. Tearing away the drywall, he hooked electrical wires and yanked them out, sending the room into darkness. He spun the dial to random combinations, begging Michael on the floor for a miracle. Just three fucking numbers.
Bashing at the steel with the poker, he knocked the dial off. No way he was getting in now. He wiped at the tears and sweat. The grandfather clock downstairs chimed the hour.
He picked up the bedroom phone and punched in Wally’s number, the king of breaking into shit. A voice that wasn’t Wally’s answered. Mitch waited a second, then hung up, figured he dialed wrong and tried again.
“That you, Mitch?” the same voice asked.
Mitch stayed silent, the big clock chiming from downstairs. He disconnected, not sure how many times the clock had struck, guessing it was six or seven.
Throwing his jeans, shirt and jacket in the dryer in the laundry room, he pressed the sensor-dry cycle, the metal snaps and zipper clanging around in the drum, Mitch forgetting the money he stole from Artie was in a pocket, going round and round.
In the ensuite, he opened the medicine cabinet. Thinking. Desperate. Taking a toothbrush, squeezing on paste, he ran it around his mouth. Throwing water on his face, dragging a ladies’ Venus over his stubble, he watched himself in the mirrored shower door, the dim light showing pallid legs in dingy underwear, the elastic long-retired, his middle sagging. His plumbing was churning, the Chivas failing, the tsunami in his gut forcing him onto the Kohler. Flicking the empty toilet paper roll, he figured he could put a 9mm round through the dial, maybe blast it open.
After a while, he felt his gut begin to settle. It was the sound of brakes that got him up, checking out the bathroom window. A dark Cadillac was pulling in the driveway, the headlights washing the house. The driver’s door opened and Stax stepped out. Mitch ran to the dryer and tugged his pants on, then the shirt and jacket, shoving the Walther in his belt, the CD in his pocket.
Stax was coming up the walk to the door, the Python in his hand, checking his new watch against the grandfather clock’s toll coming from inside the house, the chime marking the half hour.
Mitch pulled himself out the same window that he had before, shimmied down the same tree, the rain making the branches slick. Feet hit the ground, he ducked low along the hedge, running over the lawn, jumping into the waiting Cadillac, looking at the house. The keys dangled from the ignition. Thank Christ for that. The engine sprang to life, and Mitch threw the stick into reverse. Stax charged through the door at a dead run, chasing him down the driveway, grabbing for the doo
r handle, Mitch plunging the locks down.
“Who killed my dog, you fuck?”
At the end of the driveway, Mitch threw it into drive, slammed his foot down on the gas, and the Caddy shot onto Chartwell. Stax leaped onto the trunk, hanging on, fishing the pistol from behind his belt, yelling, “Who shot Ike?”
Mitch screamed it was Miro, swerved, trying to grab the Walther on the seat. He rocked the Caddy into the ditch, and Stax flew off. The back wheels slung mud and stones, Stax rolling, getting up, taking aim.
Mitch crashed the Caddy through a yew hedge, expecting a bullet. He swerved back and forth, then he was racing down the hill, his heart beating double time when he hit the on-ramp for the Number One. He was cold sober now.
In spite of the hour, the traffic was rush-hour heavy coming down the Cut and across the Second Narrows into Burnaby. At the Willingdon exit, he rolled down his window, crying and yelling out, “This is Mitch Reno leaving Shitstain.”
The boiling in his stomach eased by the time he hit Port Kells. To the east, the night sky was clear, inviting him home. He guessed the Caddy would fetch about thirty Gs back home. That and the balance of the thousand would give him a fresh start.
He stuck Burton Cummings in the player, “You Saved My Soul” filling the Caddy with prairie music he hadn’t heard since the days of Tolley’s swoops in the old Bronco. Back around the time of eight tracks.
Sweet Sweet was playing the third time around by the time Mitch hit the Crowsnest Highway. Adjusting the volume, he noticed the black do-rag on the passenger floor. An eighteen wheeler’s air horn made him jump, Mitch wrestling the Cadillac back into its own lane, the rig hauling by him, the rush of air rocking the car. Looking in the rearview, he was cursing the truck when he saw the shape under the beach blanket on the floor.
It took a while before he asked, “You under there?” The sorrow and tears turned to laughter, Mitch thinking it was the first time Wally had ever shut up.
Sometime later he wondered if there was anything in the trunk, maybe a jack handle, he could use to bury his friend. On a quiet stretch, he pulled off the highway; he popped the trunk, got out and stared at the twin suitcases with their flimsy luggage locks.
sometimes a shit sandwich
“Get yourself a real gun, and play it like a man. That’s what I’ll tell him.” His eyes went from her phone on the counter to PJ, her cheek red from being slapped. Her phone kept ringing. Outside, Marine Drive had become a blur of rain and brake lights, the rain slanting hard, pattering off the asphalt, cars leaving tracks on the street. A patrol car sped to an accident scene somewhere, the gumballs flashing red and blue against the River’s Edge building next door, its siren wailing. Miro looked out the window, anxious for Karl to show. PJ was watching him, twisting and working her wrists behind her back.
“That zap gun sure did the trick on old Artie. Your boyfriend, that’s who they’ll be coming for.” He looked at her. “Shot him right in the pacemaker.” It got him laughing.
“Think I believe that?”
“Calling me a liar?”
“You going to hit me again?”
“I was standing right there, seen the old boy jerking like he was strapped to the chair.” Miro shook his body like Artie did when he got hit, lolling his tongue for effect.
“You ever like anybody?”
“I like you fine enough.” He groaned, a fresh stab of pain shooting up his leg. “At least when you’re quiet.”
The piss stain was dry on his pants. She tried not to look at it. If she laughed again, it would buy her another slap, or worse. This guy was right on the edge.
Chip poked his head around the corner, assessing Miro from the bedroom.
“That your cat or his?” Showing how quick he could do it, he had the revolver out, giving a careless aim in Chip’s direction, asking what kind of cat doesn’t have a tail.
PJ stamped her foot, and Miro whirled on her, the black hole of the barrel staring at her. She thought she might die. Then he tipped the barrel up and looked back. Chip was gone.
Easing the hammer down, he holstered the gun, then went at her.
Knowing what was coming, she shot out her shoe, hitting the bad leg, Miro crying out, dropping down. She was up and running for the door, yelling for Anton, the super, for anybody. Turning her back to the knob, she fumbled her tied hands at the door lever, desperate to get out of there.
Using his hands, he scrambled, catching her at the door and pulling himself up, one hand dragging her by the hair, the other on her neck, squeezing the words between his teeth. “Shut the fuck up, or I’ll do you right now.” Then he bent forward, throwing up bile, some getting on his shoes, some on her. He flung her at the beanbag. “Liking you a fuck of a lot less by the second.”
Holding the counter, hearing her cry, he waited till the pain in his leg subsided. “What you got to say to me?”
“Carole Lieberman.”
“What?”
Her phone rang again, and they both looked at it on the counter, both knowing it was him, Miro changing his game plan, saying it was time to go wait downstairs.
gridlock
Karl was caught in the wrong lane, and first chance he got he made an illegal turn off Victoria, ducking around a bus. The rain pelted down, making the street signs impossible to read. Why didn’t she answer? He tried again, making sure he got the number right.
Red and blue lights flashed ahead of him, the scene of another fender bender, a PT Cruiser and a Tundra locking horns, blocking the eastbound lanes all the way to the Second Narrows Bridge. Karl’s thumbs drummed the wheel. The Roadster nearly stalled going through a puddle, then became pinned behind a Coke truck, the truck-back advertising this as bike month. He hit speed dial and got PJ’s voice mail again, then dialed the number Bruna gave him.
She picked up on the first ring, Karl telling her to get someone over to his place. Bruna asking who made him chief.
“How about you start acting like a cop?”
“When I find you—”
Karl hung up, making up his mind, turning the car around, heading for the Lions Gate Bridge. Somebody honked, somebody else cursed out a window.
Beating a light and gunning it past a motorhome with a forest mural down the side got him brake lights as far as the eye could see. More gumballs flashing ahead. A work crew was setting up a detour on Broadway, the flagger waving drivers right to a single lane.
His phone rang—had to be PJ.
It was Marty starting with, “Hey buddy, how’s it hanging?”
“Not now, Marty.”
“One word, you serve the little shit?”
“And then some—looking to give him dessert.”
“Everything alright?”
“Tell you later.” Karl hung up and went left into oncoming traffic, rain drumming at the undercarriage. More horns honked, the workmen shouting at him to slow down. He hammered it through a puddle, soaking the flagger. Zigging through side streets over to Cambie, he tried PJ’s number again.
sick of telling you twice
“My turn to pay a visit,” Miro called as Karl stepped out in the turnaround in front of the building, the Porsche next to the Chev minivan. “Didn’t need a FedEx get-up, girlfriend here just let me in.” Pushing PJ out ahead of him.
The construction was over for today, the workmen gone home. Karl stood like a drowning rat by his open door, cars zipping by behind him on Marine. Somebody had to see the crazy with the six-shooter and call the cops. Miro gave PJ another shove, using the wall as shelter from the rain, getting set to do his High Noon thing, borrowing Wally’s shit-eating grin, telling her, “Now’s the time to say so long.”
“Something I want to say to you first.”
“Yeah?”
“Want to say they’re still laughing at you. That’s what, three times now he made you look stupid?”
“Slapping her around doesn’t do much good, huh?” Miro said to him. ”Hey, where’s your zapper?”
Karl pointed in the car. “Got to recharge it.”
“This fucking weather, you’d just electrocute yourself,” Miro said, thinking it wasn’t sporting just gunning him down, preferring a real showdown, but what the hell, then to PJ, “Ready to see some Howard Darby moves?”
“Really into the spaghetti western thing, huh?” Karl said, stepping away from the car, wondering if Bruna got the address wrong, maybe stopped for Timbits.
“Yeah, I dig the old Sergio Leones, Fistful of Dollars, Duck, You Sucker, all that.”
“You see that one about Tombstone?”
“Tombstone’s not one of his,” Miro said. “But it’s pretty decent. Wyatt Earp’s got them all beat.”
“Haven’t seen that one,” Karl said, taking another step, wishing he had his old Smith, the one he gave Marty. “That the one with Costner?”
“Yeah, some of his best work.” Miro hobbled a step, saying, “There’s a scene goes something like this.”
“Just gonna shoot me?”
“Got a better idea?”
“A wimp move, you ask me.”
The cab flew around the corner—one of those hybrid ones, Karl sure it was Bruna. Stax climbed out, the driver calling after him for his fare.
“Keep it running.” Stax pulled Jeffery’s Python and walked into the turnaround, saying to Miro, “Found out who shot Ike.” He stopped, Jeffery’s gun down at his side. “The two stupid guys both swear it was you.”
“Yeah, well, they’re stupid, right?”
“Swore it on their lives.”
Karl stepped wide, nicking his head, his eyes telling PJ to move away.
Stax was coming forward, saying to Karl without taking his eyes off Miro, “Clueless fuck. It’s true what he said, getting you on tape taking Artie’s deal. Ready to hand you to the cops for offing the two assholes.”
Ride the Lightning Page 20