The RUB clubs were gone. The real bikers were kicking back in the clubhouse. Jimmy Williams worked the bar, cleaning glasses and serving drinks. The patches were feeling no pain while the band was on stage ripping through “Night Train.” The bottles and glassware were dancing behind the bar. Gunner wasn’t up on stage. That could be a problem. Most parties he stayed onstage all night, couldn’t cause any shit for Jimmy from up there. He was the only patch missing. The best way to avoid trouble with Gunner was to avoid Gunner, so Jimmy decided to make his move. Two prospects were working the door. The compound was locked outside, so it wasn’t like anyone was about to crash. Williams signalled to a prospect out of Sydney. The guy’s nose was bandaged, and Williams knew his buddy had gotten his cut pulled earlier in the day. He’d be nervous now, wanting to please the patches.
“Hey, man, I got Litter Box business needs to be handled. Take the bar,” he said as the stocky young prospect came over.
No out-of-town cherry was going to question him when he raised the Box. They might both be prospects in the clubhouse, but in the street, Jimmy carried weight. Other prospects feared him. They knew about the Litter Box and the way he ran it. The Pier boy gave him a quick “yes, sir.” It made Jimmy’s swagger a little deeper as he folded his cut, placed it beneath the bar, and headed for the door.
He headed out, sure that none of the drunken patches would notice. And Gunner, well fuck him. Prospecting was a pain in the ass, and he was glad he could finally see the end of it. This would be his night for sure. Fuck ’em all.
Phil Murphy was waiting in a black Cadillac Escalade in the gravel lot across from the compound. Williams didn’t ask where it came from, didn’t care. It was stolen, that’s all that mattered. Good choice, too. Nobody drove the greased-up Caddies except crack dealers. Let the cops chase after them.
“Where is it?” he asked as he jumped into the passenger seat.
“Back seat.”
“Drive.”
Williams turned in the seat, reached back, and pulled the blanket off his treasure. He grabbed the flat-black MAC-10 and pulled it into the front. Even with the suppressor threaded into place the gun was still a short-barrelled thing of beauty. Be a shame to toss it after the job, but there are always more guns to be had.
Williams’s feet rested on a nylon kit bag stuffed into the space under the dash. He reached down and grabbed the handle, pulling it up and sitting it on the gun in his lap. He unzipped the bag and pulled out two clips for the 10 and two balaclavas. Two sets of clothes filled out the bag. They’d change after the job. No residue. He put the balaclavas on the armrest between the front seats and shoved the bag back into place. He slammed a magazine into the gun and held it up to catch the final rays of the sunset as they cut through the windshield.
“Let’s take this magazine over the Magazine,” he laughed, feeling good about it.
Phil Murphy looked at him and said nothing. The big Caddy idling, not moving.
“Fuck, Phil. Drive over Magazine Hill, will you? We’re going to Bedford.”
The night slipped past the window as Lolita kicked her feet up onto the dash in front of her. They were more than an hour from The Fog Bank now, too late to make it back on time. She took a drag from her cigarette and smiled, wondering what Glen Carroll was doing. Running around looking for his headliner, afraid to call the clubhouse. He’d spin all night like that till she got back. She would have to take a beating, there was no avoiding that now. Still, she would stay with Samuel. He wasn’t saying much, and that was okay. When they were kids, Samuel’s silences could last hours, days sometimes. It was nice just to be alone with him. This must be what it felt like to be free. She recognized the bright light off to the left of the highway. A brown and red Tim Hortons sign stood high above the town of Windsor. How many times had they seen that same sign, faces pressed to the window, wishing the driver would stop? The drivers never did. She must have seen it a hundred times and had never once stepped inside the coffee shop.
“Can we get a coffee?” she asked.
Samuel turned to look at her and then glanced ahead at the sign. He flicked the turn-signal lever up. She watched him as the Ford slowed. He was still small but seemed a little older as he relaxed behind the wheel. Like a man, maybe. Hell, she’d been with younger men at stag parties and strip clubs. Hard to think of Sam that way. She wondered if he’d killed Thelma and then dismissed the thought. Sam was no killer, though he was full of surprises. This run to the camp was a big one. She’d ask him when they got there, and he’d tell her everything. They pulled off the highway and into the crowded parking lot. Sam eased the Ford into the drive-thru lane.
“Can I go in?” she asked.
He turned the wheel and found a parking spot near the door.
Lolita wanted to stretch a little. “Come on, let’s go act like real people. We can sit at a table and have a coffee together. It’ll be fun.”
He looked at her, a smile lighting up those beautiful brown eyes.
“Sure, we can do that.”
Lolita sat at a table by the window while Samuel stood in line to get their coffee. Most of the tables were filled with kids. She looked out at the parking lot. Same thing. Kids clustered around cars in groups, a couple of motorbikes on one side. Plastic-looking bikes. Not the kind the Stallion rode, so she wasn’t worried. A few of the kids were wandering between the Tim Hortons parking lot and the McDonald’s next door. Most of the boys wore team jackets, WRHS on the back in big letters. Lolita had no idea what it might stand for. Just kids hanging out on a Saturday night. She wondered what that was like, wondered why she thought of them as kids. They were probably her age, give or take a year. Still, they looked like babies.
The noise at a table near her drew her eye from the window. Five girls looked back at her. They laughed, all of them. A fat redhead stood, pulled her hair out from the sides of her head, and spun around. The girls laughed louder. Lolita lifted her hand to her own head, touched a pigtail wrapped in white ribbon. She let the hand move to her cheek and down her face, felt the tiny bits of gold glitter. Two boys from another table joined the redhead as she swayed back and forth, flicking her mock pigtails from side to side. All three walked over to Lolita.
“Hey, you retarded or something?” the fat girl asked behind a twisted grin. The bigger of the boys leaned in and gave Lolita’s hair a sharp tug. The redhead squealed.
Lolita’s purse was on the table, her switchblade tucked inside. She resisted the urge, and instead stood and punched the bigger boy hard. He rocked back. His friend laughed.
“Get her, Lenny.” The redhead’s squeal turned ugly with anticipation.
The big guy, Lenny, rolled forward off his heels, finding his footing. He glanced at his friend and then at the other girls. Embarrassed now. He pulled back, squared his hips ready to return the punch. Lolita braced; she’d been hit by bigger, she could take it.
The redhead’s squeals were lost in a howl as Lenny dropped to his knees in front of Lolita. Samuel stood above him, a bloody knife in one hand, two coffee cups balanced on a cardboard tray in the other. He swiped the blade across the other boy’s cheek. A stream of his blood mixed with Lenny’s. The five girls fell silent, and for a moment the only sound was the moaning of the boy on the floor.
“Maybe we should take our coffee out,” Lolita said as she looked at Samuel.
“Guess so.” Sam pushed his way through the door. Didn't look back.
“Why are we going there?” she asked as they headed for the Ford.
“We’re going to burn it down,” he said.
“That’ll be fun.”
She looked back through the window as a crowd gathered around Lenny. Maybe Sam could kill. She leaned across the seat, careful not to spill the coffee from its spot in the cup holder. She kissed his cheek as he backed the Ford out and pointed it toward the highway. His eyes opened fully as he smiled.
Jimmy Williams craved a different kind of blast. He pushed the button to lower the window as the Escalade rolled over the top of the Magazine. He eased the MAC-10 out and unleashed a burst into the trees and boulders bordering the highway. The suppressor kept the sound and the muzzle flash to a minimum, but the bright tongue of flame still blinded him as the gun spit nine-millimetre slugs into the night. The short barrel jerked up and to the right. Williams grabbed the small strap that hung from the barrel and pulled down, adjusted his grip and poured another stream into the trees, fighting the gun, holding it steady.
He swapped out the spent clip for a fresh one from the kit bag. This was going to be a night to remember. He’d be a legend, Stallion elite. Shit, they might patch him straight to Nomad. A killer’s killer. Most would never know why, but that was okay. The chosen few would know. Jimmy was the man.
He ran his gloved hand over the hot barrel, thought about Mapp. Guy had to be wired tight. How else could he know where Christmas and Neville were right now? Mapp was a real-deal motherfucker, no doubt. Williams would have to show him respect, maybe even give him that loyalty he wanted.
“Okay, Phil, this is our ticket. Here’s what I want. The fuckers park in the underground lot. We go down and pick a spot near the elevators. That’s where we wait. The Indian comes out, he gets it. If we get lucky, maybe Neville is with him, and we get two, but the Indian is our boy.”
Phil Murphy didn’t take his eyes off the road as he eased the stolen Caddy off Magazine Hill and into Bedford.
Williams slapped him with the hot barrel of the MAC-10. Not hard. He was in a good mood. Murphy glanced over.
“You got us a great car here, man. Tinted windows are perfect, but we still gotta wear the masks cause they got cameras down there.”
Murphy reached down, grabbed one of the balaclavas, and struggled to pull it over his head as he drove. Williams grabbed the other and did the same as they nosed down into the ramp beneath the Sunnyside Mall.
Rows of underpowered lights suspended from the cement ceiling dumped a yellow glow into the deep darkness of the underground lot. Cement pillars lined the outer edge of each row of parking spaces. Most of the slots were empty—the stores closed early Saturday night—so there shouldn’t be any witnesses. Williams pointed to a parking spot opposite the elevators. A sign pinned to the wall marked it as reserved. Caddy shouldn’t look out of place there.
“Back it in, so I’ve got the angle on the doors and we can get out quick.”
He bounced forward in his seat and drummed his fingers on the leather dashboard, the MAC-10 beside him on the seat. He reached up, moved the balaclava back and forth until the eye holes were just right, tested the power window a few times. He noticed the bikes tucked into a corner opposite the elevators.
“That’s Neville’s ride. Fucking Mapp, man. Yeah.”
“Can’t shoot him.” Murphy expressing an opinion.
“The fuck you say?” Williams pressed the hot barrel into the back of Murphy’s hand, pinning it to the wheel, smelling burning flesh.
“Can’t shoot him.” The big man didn’t pull his hand free.
“Fuck, Phil, I heard it the first time. Just shut up. We get the shot, we bag that cocksucker. He’s not a Stallion. Let’s just hope he comes out with the Indian.” Williams grabbed the balaclava and slid it left and then right again, pushed it up a little higher as black wool and sweat clouded his eyes.
Halls Harbour huddles behind a breakwater on the muddy shores of the Bay of Fundy. Fog shrouded the wharf and the weather-beaten homes in the tiny village. A lobster restaurant and craft shop sat empty on the wharf. The Fundy tides are the world’s most extreme and dictate the rhythm of the village. High tide, busy wharf; low tide, empty wharf. It was almost midnight when Samuel pulled to a stop in the gravel lot near the breakwater. Cones of light cut through the fog to the fleet below. The boats sat at awkward angles, their hulls planted in the mud. In a few hours, the tide would push around the breakwater and the fleet would rise to meet the edge of the wharf. By then, the parking lot would be filled with half-ton trucks as crews headed out to run the trap lines, but for now, the boats sat alone. Lolita jumped out and walked to the edge of the wharf, leaning over carefully to look down at the deck of the nearest boat.
It was cold, but she liked the fog; it was easy to disappear into it, especially at night. The restaurant and the homes stuck into the side of the hill were all dark. The lights glowing above the wharf were the only ones in the village. She watched Samuel grab two large red plastic jugs from the back of the SUV. She turned back to the boats while he went in search of fuel. She remembered coming here when they were little. She loved the trips, felt free when she was here, even if she couldn’t talk to anyone. When the tide was high, and the boats were headed out past the huge boulders that made up the breakwater, she used to dream of being on one, heading out into the water where no one could reach her.
Lolita turned at the sound of a car pulling into the lot. A tan Mercedes eased up next to the Ford. Bobby Simms stepped out. Even through the fog, she could see that grin. Hated it. Simms walked over and stood beside her, lit a cigar, and looked down at the boats.
“Hey, sexy, where’s your boy?” he asked.
Lolita looked around, but she couldn’t see Samuel.
“What do you want, Bobby?” She looked up at him.
He leaned close, and she could smell alcohol mixed with the tobacco. He reached around and grabbed her, pulling her to him.
“If I want something, I’ll take it.”
Lolita went limp. Let him hold her tight to his body. She said nothing.
“That’s my good girl,” he said as he kissed her head and released her. “Maybe we’ll play a little later. Now where’s Sam?” He looked around the parking lot.
Samuel walked out of the dense fog near the restaurant. The red plastic jugs were gone. Moisture glistened where the wharf lights caught his curls. He had his hands stuffed inside his jacket pockets, probably holding the knife. Lolita thought of her own switchblade. The same one she used on that asshole in Boston and on the bastard’s dead body.
“Don’t touch her like that,” he said as he approached.
“What’s that? Come on, Sam, she’s everybody’s girl. You know that. Lots of Lolita to share. You know girls like her have always serviced men of God like us. Prostitution was born in the temples, Sam.” He reached over with his left arm and pulled her close again, puffing the cigar. “So, little man, you called me here. Oh, before you get any ideas…” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a short-barrel .38, and pointed it at Samuel.
“I don’t know for sure that you killed your father; maybe someone in the congregation caught wind of his evil ways and put him down. Maybe, but you look pretty good for it to me, so keep some distance.” He squeezed Lolita tighter to his side.
“It doesn’t matter who killed him, Bobby. His own evil was behind it. He deserved to die.”
“Maybe. Whoever did it, he’s gone, and that leaves us. You called me, Sam, so what do you want?”
>
“I’m going to the ranch. We need your alarm fob and keys. They’re mine now.” Samuel moved closer. “Now please, let Tatjana go.”
“Tatjana. Fancy name for a whore, Sam. But I can see you have a thing for her.” He pushed Lolita toward Samuel. “You’ll learn soon enough. As for the ranch keys, forget it, son. They will never be yours.” Bobby kept the gun pointed at Sam.
“There are some things we do need to clear up, and this is as good a spot as any. I’m afraid one of them involves your little tart here.” He pointed the gun at Lolita. “I’m afraid she may have to be sacrificed to the bigger cause.”
Lolita knelt down where she’d dropped her purse and pulled out her cigarette package. She lit a cigarette and then pushed the small box back inside the open bag. She hoped the purse muffled the click of the switchblade as she pulled her knife hand free. Bobby must have heard it. She saw him start to move the gun, aiming at her face now. She was low on his left side and came up fast, driving the knife high into the head of the big cat tattoo above his collar. He dropped the gun and screamed as he reached for the knife. He stumbled back and dropped. A wet smack rose from the mud bed. Lolita walked to the edge of the wharf and looked down. Bobby was face down in the mud, his arms spread at awkward angles, his legs twisted. He was trying to push himself up. His face fell back into the mud. The bow of a fishing boat cast a shadow over his body.
“I hope he left the keys in the car. Don’t want to climb down there after them.” Sam stood beside her, Bobby’s gun in his hand. He pulled back to throw it. Lolita reached up, placing a hand gently on his arm.
“Let’s keep it.” He handed her the gun and headed to the Mercedes.
Lolita watched Bobby carefully. There was no more movement down there. She laughed. She’d wanted to kill people before, lots of times. She always thought it would feel bad when she finally did it; it felt great. Bobby deserved it. Maybe she’d feel sorry in the morning. By then the tide would have taken him far from here.
Disposable Souls Page 25