“You know your girlfriend’s a cop?” Karl asked Miro, buying time. “Yeah, told me after you went out the window.”
Miro grinned at him.
“Told me she put saltpeter in your coffee, keep you from getting ideas in the bedroom. And the shit she was snorting was powdered milk.”
“Funny guy,” he said it to PJ.
“Ask her yourself in a minute.”
Miro said to Stax, “Last chance, throw him the gun and we’re square. Get back in your cab and split.”
Anton the super stepped off the elevator, into the lobby, looking out at the armed standoff, crouching to the floor. The cabbie saw things getting ugly, forgot about the fare and backed up, nearly clipping the Taurus two-wheeling around the corner.
Screeching to a stop, Bruna jumped out with her .38 extended over the roof, delivering the routine cop lines, yelling for everybody to drop their weapons.
Miro wasn’t seeing right. His topless shoeshine chick with a gun, her shield clipped to his shirt. “What the fuck you doing?”
Keeping a steady aim, she told them she wanted to see hands.
“Got to learn to control your women,” Stax said to Miro, telling Bruna to take a number. Rushing it, he flipped the Python up and fired, the shot taking out the glass door, Anton the super crabbing for the elevator. Miro snapped off a shot, Stax staggering backward, falling with a bullet hole in his chest. Miro was turning and fanning the hammer, firing at Bruna behind the car. The first of the black-and-whites tore in from the underpass, Dom and Luca in the backseat, more backup coming like cavalry along Marine.
Bruna’s passenger window exploded, Miro firing a third time, putting one in Karl, watching him fall. Three shots in two seconds. Grabbing PJ’s arm before she could run to Karl, Miro was punched back. Mouth falling open to the rain, he stutter stepped, looking at Bruna behind the Taurus, like he didn’t believe he’d missed. He worked at staying on his feet, the pistol heavy in his hand. Her pistol locked in both hands over the hood, she was yelling for him to throw it down.
Another squad car tore around the corner, sirens and gumballs going like a disco. Doors flew open and cops crouched, getting ringside for the O.K. Corral shootout. A dozen guns aiming at him, voices yelling. Losing hold of PJ, Miro felt his legs go to pudding. He brought the Vaquero up once more, wondering if Bruna was even her real name.
sounds like a wife talking
Karl’s first thought was of PJ, that she was alright. Lying there staring up at the TV screen, the news running with the sound turned down, Lloyd Robertson’s mouth moving with nothing coming out. Sun streamed through the slat blinds, a rainbow refracted through a pitcher of water, glowing on the wall. Taking in the disinfectant smells and the squawking of a paging system, he guessed he was in a hospital.
Putting together what had happened, he tried to feel where he’d been hit, but felt numb all over. The standoff, the shots fired, Karl knocked to the ground. That was it. All he cared about was that PJ was okay—praying to God she was.
Following the tube running from his arm to the IV bag, he focused on the valve dripping clear liquid. Something in the drip caused the fog inside his head, interfering with him replaying the scene: Bruna shouting, Miro gunning Stax down, then feeling the bullet like a punch. Then nothing.
Watching Lloyd’s mouth moving, he fought it, the drifting dark coming. In the dream, Miro was coming for him, Karl lying in the hospital bed, hooked to IV, Miro prowling the halls with his six-shooter.
Next time he woke, the TV was off, and there she was sitting in the chair next to the bed, red roses on her lap, those eyes, that strawberry hair, that smile lighting the room.
She came to him, put a hand on his arm. Leaning in, she kissed his cheek, asking him how he was, calling him cowboy, her voice a whisper.
He felt her hair brush his face, his mouth dry. He smiled and said, “I’m a little pissed.”
She asked if it was the food, and he said he hadn’t eaten yet, told her he’d been counting on slapping the cuffs on Miro one more time.
She shook her head. “That isn’t going to happen.”
“He make a play for the whole precinct?”
“The lady cop put him down.”
“Bruna, no kidding?”
“Hard to tell with all the other cops shooting, but she hit him first.” She set the flowers in a vase by the bed, saying, “I wouldn’t have minded taking a shot at him myself, and I only knew the guy for what, an hour?”
“Had a knack for rubbing people the wrong way.”
“Speaking of which, she wants to see you when you’re up for it—Bruna, I mean.”
He frowned, guessing he was in the deep end.
“And your buddy’s been calling from Seattle.”
“Marty?”
She said yeah. “Day and night. He’s been worried.”
“You got to meet Marty.” He caught an image of Marty standing in a tux next to him, handing him a ring. He watched her arrange the roses in the vase, asking her, “Red, you know what that means?”
“I’m the one who told you, cowboy. But before we head down that road, there’s one thing . . .”
“Yeah?”
“You’re going to find another job.”
“Got one. Okay, I mean the pay could be better.”
“Funny—lying there with a hole in you, hooked to tubes. I’ll tell you this much, if this thing’s going anywhere, this you-and-me thing, I can’t be wondering every time you’re late for supper.”
“You can cook?”
“Lot of things you don’t know. But if I’m going to fuss over my broiled pork loin with sage, I need to know you’re going to show up and eat it.”
“Pork with sage, huh?”
“Get yourself a job—one that won’t get you shot.”
“Serving papers in Canada’s like child’s play.”
“You’re the one who got wheeled in here.”
It wasn’t the time to argue. “What else can I do?”
“I had Dara browse the net, jotted down a couple of numbers—enough to get you started.”
“Oh shit. Dara.” Karl tried to sit. “I told her I’d pick her up at Turks.”
PJ patted his wrist, smiling at him, asking if he had any idea what day it was.
stick and move
“You sure make that look like work,” he called out the passenger side, shifting to neutral, looking over his shades, past the curb, putting on the Clooney. He tucked the Nikon under his jacket on the seat.
Helen Jackson stood bowed over, looking every bit as good as that time he walked in to serve her boss, Melnick. Doing justice to the hip-huggers, she flipped a mossy rock with a spade. Karl’s words brought her up with a smile. Flipping her hair back, now a different shade of blonde, she clapped muck from her work gloves, looking at the guy with the shades sitting in the old-time sports car with the top down. Sizing him up, she guessed a slick realtor, any kind of renovation bringing them round like wolves. Starting to say somebody’s got to do it, she blocked the sun with her hand and recognized him. “Hey, if it isn’t Karl with a K, right?”
“That’s right, Helen.” He didn’t say “with the double Ds,” waiting as she stabbed the spade into the ground, coming toward him. What he did say was “That’s some memory you got.”
She took off the gloves, no ring or acrylic nails this time, and leaned on the passenger door, checking out his ride. “Can’t forget a guy who brought me flowers. Yellow’s for friendship; you told me that.”
“That’s right, I did,” Karl said, keeping his eyes on hers. Not looking below her chin felt like not looking at the elephant in the room. “So tell me, how are things over at Marv Melnick’s?”
“Not so hot since Marv’s wife filed for divorce.”
“Caught him having lunch with the redhead?”
�
�You remembered?
“Sinnamon with an S, right?
“Hey, you’re good. But I think it was more because he’s a jerk. In fact, I was hoping you’d be by to serve the papers.”
“Sorry I missed it,” he said.
“Yeah, the missus is going for the throat, the business, the kids, the whole nine yards.”
“Where’s that leave you?”
“Right now, I’m on leave—hurt my back lifting file boxes.” She touched the small of her back, told him when Marv took the extra space after Rogers closed next door, he had her packing and moving boxes. “Felt like a piano wire snapping, you know. Next thing, I can barely stand.”
“Better now?”
“I’m fine, really.” She waved it off. “Waiting to settle with the insurance, you know?”
“Funny, running into you.
“Small world.”
“Yeah, ’cause I’ve been thinking of booking a trip.”
“Oh yeah, where to?”
“I’m thinking Costa Rica.”
“Oh, great place. I can get you a deal on a suite at the Red Palms. You want, I can do it right from my laptop.” She flicked her head to the house. “Just let me wash my hands.” Those blue eyes talking to him. She remembered giving him her number, guessing he might be after more than booking a trip.
“On the fly right now, Helen,” he said. “Funny, I was just cutting across when I saw you working. The Drive’s a parking lot—some Car-Free Day thing going on.”
“Part of the Drive vibe. You come by tonight, they’ll have cooking with music playing in the street—Italian, Chinese, you name it. You show up, I’ll save you a dance,” she said, those blue eyes working.
“Well—”
“You got a we-thing going, don’t you?” she asked.
He nodded.
“My Ed’s at some sales conference, always on the road when there’s work to be done. Convenient, don’t you think?” The smile was pure magic.
“You should be watching that back.”
“Yeah, you wouldn’t know we’ve got a crew of guys—came highly recommended—supposed to be here right now,” she said. “Guess I’ll have to sic Ed on them again.”
The file said this Ed was easily agitated, weighed in at two-fifty and tossed the last adjuster from the porch two weeks ago.
Helen ran her hand along the door. “This we-situation a red flower kind of thing?”
“Yeah, but try being romantic when your girl’s got her teenage kid in the basement suite,” he said, shifting the jacket on the seat, picking up the Nikon, the Diversified Risk folder under it.
The smile was gone, her eyes on the camera and the folder.
“Not that we keep her prisoner down there. Kid’s just going through that teenage hell stage, you know?”
Helen nodded like her head was made of wood. “You’re not serving papers anymore, are you, Karl?”
He spun the Nikon around, saying, “PJ, that’s my girl, figured it was getting too dangerous for a fellow my age—likes to know if she cooks it, I’ll be there to eat it.”
“Sounds like she cares.” Her face went pale.
“Yeah, I’m a lucky guy. Guess that’s why I took the gig with Diversified Risk. Work mainly fraud cases, Workers’ Comp, you know? Get to play with the toys: night-vision this, wireless that, you name it. They send me to catch folks in the act, you know, cheating the company. You wouldn’t believe some of the claims, back and neck stuff mostly. I take the pics, appear in court, put up my hand and swear an oath, that kind of thing.”
Her eyes turned teary.
“Truth is I’m bored with it. Soon as five o’clock rolls around, I can’t wait to get home.” He drew up his sleeve and checked his watch. Ten past. He turned the camera so she could see the preview. He looked at her and hit erase. “Bastards don’t pay overtime. You believe that?”
Blinking and sniffling, Helen looked at him, then the camera, getting his meaning.
“Better push on. PJ gets crazy when I’m late.” He tucked the camera in the glovebox, no Taser in there now.
“So,” she said, “will I be seeing you again?”
“Only if you invite us for a swim.”
Her smile was slowly returning. “Soon as the concrete sets, you and your PJ are our first guests. We can barbecue something.”
“Sounds real nice,” he said, told her he’d call about the trip and shifted the stick. “Really good to see you again, Helen. Careful with the back, okay?” He winked and was rolling, thinking he still had time to stop at Berry Brothers for a bottle of Cru. A quiet evening in front of the fire, lay the Costa Rico trip on PJ, get a little romantic.
Helen was still waving when he checked the rearview at the end of the block, thinking he’d fill out the report in the morning, send the folder along with the medical reports and X-rays back upstairs. Helen Jackson’s claim would get rubber stamped and processed.
His cell rang, PJ asking where he was, telling him Dara and Cam were joining them, asking how he felt about whipping up one of his curries, asking him to stop by Drive Organics, get what he needed, saying Dara and Cam were on a vegetarian kick now, adding Chip tossed up another furball, his turn to clean it up.
His quiet evening evaporated, turning into another night of Air Miles or cup sizes or whatever Dara was dishing up. It got him grinning, thinking what the hell, it would keep until tomorrow.
acknowledgments
I wish to express my gratitude to Jack David for this opportunity, and also to Crissy, Erin, Sarah, Jenna and everyone at ECW Press for all their help and hard work. A big thanks goes to Emily Schultz for her razor-sharp editing and encouraging words. And finally, thank you to Andrea and Alexander for their love and support.
Dietrich Kalteis’s short stories have been published widely, and his screenplay Between Jobs was a finalist in the 2003 Los Angeles Screenplay Festival. Kalteis lives in West Vancouver, British Columbia. This is his first novel.
Copyright © Dietrich Kalteis, 2014
Published by ECW Press
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Toronto, Ontario, Canada m4e 1e2
416-694-3348 / [email protected]
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any process — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise — without the prior written permission of the copyright owners and ECW Press. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
library and archives canada cataloguing in publication
Kalteis, Dietrich, author
Ride the lightning : a crime novel / Dietrich Kalteis.
ISBN 978-1-77041-150-0 (bound);
978-1-77041-211-8 (pbk)
Also issued as: 978-1-77090-506-1 (pdf);
978-1-77090-507-8 (epub)
I. Title.
PS8621.A474R53 2014 C813’.6 C2013-908022-8 C2013-908023-6
Cover design: David Gee
The publication of Ride the Lightning has been generously supported by the Canada Council for the Arts which last year invested $157 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country, and by the Ontario Arts Council (OAC), an agency of the Government of Ontario, which last year funded 1,681 individual artists and 1,125 organizations i
n 216 communities across Ontario for a total of $52.8 million. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for our publishing activities, and the contribution of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.
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