Airbag Scars

by Jim Heskett

  The bouncer advanced, and Micah leaned right, then slammed his fist into the bouncer’s stomach, which was solid enough that it felt like punching a wall. The blow did the trick, though, as the bouncer leaned forward, exposing his chin.

  Micah channeled everything he had into cracking the bouncer under the jaw. He fell backward, landing on the sidewalk. Micah could hear his tailbone connect with the pavement.

  The chirp of a siren interrupted the moment. Micah swerved around, searching for the sound, and noticed two cops sitting in a cruiser up the street, watching the fight. The cops made no effort to drive closer or leave their car, so maybe they just wanted to announce themselves.

  The bouncer stood, wiping blood off his chin. He cast a look at the cop car, then said, “you’re dead. You ever come around here again, and you won’t walk away from this.”

  Micah knew he should leave it at that and disappear, but he couldn’t resist. “Because you kicked my ass so good this time?”

  The bouncer flinched, and the cops beeped their siren again. Thinking they might not give a third warning, Micah snatched up the fallen handcuffs and took off, running away from the Pink Door. He crossed the street, confident the bouncer wouldn’t follow him with cops watching.

  When he looked up, he saw he was under the awning of the building next to the homeless shelter. When he stepped inside, the adrenaline caught up with him, and he started shaking. The last time he’d bloodied his knuckles he’d been in a blackout, and he couldn’t remember how long it had been before that. A few months, at least. Long enough that it felt unfamiliar again.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  Micah looked up to see a tall woman next to a counter. Behind her were stacks and stacks of ammo boxes, and rows of guns hanging from hooks across a grate that spanned the entire back wall. Dozens of weapons, all shapes and sizes.

  Shooting range. He hadn’t even realized where he was going when he fled the bouncer.

  “I just need to make a phone call,” he said.

  “Take your time,” the woman said, with a raised eyebrow.

  Micah dialed the number and his adrenaline devolved into anxiety as it rang. “Frank,” he said, before Frank could say hello.

  “Micah, what’s up?”

  “I messed up. I did something I shouldn’t have done, and I think I screwed everything up.”

  Frank sighed. “Are you at a bar right now?”

  “No, I didn’t take a drink. It’s not like that.” Although, Micah realized, a drink would soothe his racing nerves. And again, that insidious lie that he could take a drink and somehow magically stop after one invaded his brain. Even though he knew it was false, he still couldn’t stop it.

  “I went to the Pink Door again to fix what I did the other day. Up into the apartments above it. Our guy is there. I heard him.”

  “Okay,” Frank said, “that actually sounds like real progress, so what did you screw up?”

  Micah had to pause for a second to appreciate how calm Frank had been about this news. Micah had expected an ass-chewing for taking an impulsive and poorly planned initiative, but Frank didn’t say anything.

  “I was spotted.”

  Frank sucked his teeth for a few seconds. “Roland saw you? Did he know why you were there?”

  “Not Roland, a bouncer from the strip club. But he knew I was up in the apartments, and we tussled a little out in the street. He saw my handcuffs, so he has to know I was there for Roland. They’ll spot me if I poke my head around near the club.”

  “We can’t do anything about it now, kid. They’ll move him soon, if they haven’t already. But at least we know he’s still in town, and we know who’s got him. You did good work.”

  “I did?”

  “Yeah. We’ll talk more about it when you’re back at the office.”

  Micah said his goodbyes, stunned how well the conversation had gone. Not that Frank had ever been harsh with him, but Micah anticipated a good tongue-lashing for this episode, at the very least.

  “Sir?”

  Micah turned to face the smiling counter woman. “Yes?”

  “Are you going to shoot with us today?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  WHEN MICAH leaped onto the fire escape bolted to the rear of the apartments like a monkey scrambling for a tree branch, Donovan dropped his phone on the passenger seat. Then, when Micah raised the window on one of the apartments and slipped inside, he chuckled.

  “What have you got going on there, snitch?” he said to the dashboard. “Breaking into an ex-lover’s apartment?”

  After a couple minutes of nothing happening, Donovan unbuckled his seatbelt and reclined in his seat. He’d followed Micah to get to know his habits. Stopping at the Pink Door made sense, because maybe Micah was starting to put together the events from that night, but breaking into an apartment above it?

  As Donovan waited for Micah to come back out, or gunshots, or something, his phone vibrated. He snatched it from the passenger seat, eager to read the reply text from his wife.

  No, Donny, I don’t think so. I’m sorry, but the answer is still no.

  He resisted the urge to hurl the phone out into the street, and instead let it fall back onto the passenger seat. He should have felt discouraged that Caitlin was still refusing to meet with him, but that was okay. He was only halfway to getting his life back together. Once he had Micah and was presenting him to whatever remained of El Lobo’s people, he would get his status back. Then he would get his wife back. Then he would have a job and be whole again.

  Five minutes later, Micah burst through a door on the side of the building, and immediately started sparring with some guy in a suit. Micah handled himself well, taking advantage of the guy’s clumsy fighting style. Impressive. The guy got in only one or two good punches to Micah’s five or six.

  Anyone who’d spent time in the line of work that both Micah and Donovan used to enjoy would have needed to learn how to fight, but Micah had an excellent grace about him when tossing punches. He’d clearly had some training in the boxing ring, and maybe some martial arts background, too.

  That would be good for Donovan to keep in mind, if it came to that at some point in the next couple weeks.

  Then a police siren chirped, and Donovan dropped low in his seat. He repositioned his rearview mirror until he could see the black and white parked a half block behind him. A second later, the fight broke up, and Micah dashed across the street to the building with the gun range.

  At first this surprised Donovan because the snitch could have escaped to anywhere, but then it made sense. Micah wanted to carry that adrenaline rush from fighting. Few activities in the world felt as good as squeezing the trigger of a gun while that energy pulsed through your arms and shoulders.

  “Fighting and fucking,” Donovan said.

  Donovan hated Micah, but he couldn’t help but feel a grudging respect for the man. Donovan might do the same thing after beating someone’s ass.

  But the more pressing consideration was: what had Micah learned by going to the strip club? Had he talked with someone and discovered that he had been inside it the night he’d encountered Donovan the first time?

  Wouldn’t hurt to go check it out.

  Donovan left the car and walked across to the strip club, then paid the man inside the anteroom to get into the main room. He was immediately hit with the force of the music inside. It wasn’t the nicest nudie bar he’d ever been to, but he’d stuffed dollar bills into bikini strings in places a lot worse than this.

  He grabbed a seat at a table as he surveyed the room. Maybe Micah had a thing for one of the titty-shaking dancers, thinking he was going to persuade her to leave her sinful lifestyle and run away with him.

  A woman came to his table and took his drink order, and that’s when he caught sight of the back table with the light hanging low, and the shadowy figures around it. Club owner, or some gangster who knew the club owner. Had to be. And that’s where Donovan needed to go.

  He sto
od and walked toward the table, and when he saw two men in suits form a barrier between him and the table, he knew for sure whoever was at that booth had answers for him.

  Donovan took out his wallet and removed a business card.

  “You’re not allowed back here, sir,” one of the bouncers said, barely audible above the music.

  Donovan handed the business card to the bouncer. “I want to talk to the man,” he said, even though he had no idea who the man would be.

  The bouncer looked at the card, then showed it to the other one. The other guy held up a smarmy hand to get Donovan to wait while the bouncer with the card walked back to the table.

  Thirty seconds passed until the bouncer returned, then he waved Donovan forward. He stepped past the gatekeeper bouncer, resisting the urge to knock him in the shoulder. It would have been easy for Donovan to claim it had been an accident, since he was bigger than the guy.

  At the table, Donovan saw three men: a large man with a scar under his eye, flanked by two men wearing sunglasses. Bodyguards, had to be. Whoever this guy was, he was important.

  The man with the scar wagged a finger at a chair opposite the booth. When Donovan sat, the man pointed the business card at him. It was a simple card with a raised image of a wolf’s head.

  “Where did you get this?” the man with the scar said.

  “I used to work for the man this card represents. Maybe you know him?”

  The man shook his head. “Not personally. But everybody in a particular line of work knows the name Luis Velasquez.”

  “Then,” Donovan said, “you’ll know that only people who meet a certain standard would be in possession of a card like that. And I’d guess since you know his real name, you’re the kind of person I’d want to be dealing with.”

  One of the bodyguards leaned into the man’s ear and said something, drowned out by the music. The facial scar man passed the card across the table. “I’m Tyson Darby,” he said.

  “Donovan Nardell.”

  Donovan was about to ask Tyson about Micah’s exploration here when Tyson got that look in his eye, the sort of look you give someone when you’re about to sell them something. This intrigued Donovan and he wanted to see how it would pan out.

  “But,” Tyson said, “knowing his name doesn’t have the same weight it used to. Now that your El Lobo is in prison, his secrets are a lot harder to keep.”

  Donovan took this as an insult, but he kept his cool. “He still has plenty of secrets. And plenty of his people are still around to make new ones.”

  Tyson laughed, and Donovan decided he liked this man. Maybe he was some small time player, or maybe he was a big fish. Either way, he carried himself well, and Donovan could appreciate that.

  “What brings you to my club, Mr. Nardell?”

  Donovan decided to keep Micah in his pocket for now. “Call me Donovan. I’m just here, seeing if there’s anything worth seeing.”

  “I don’t want to be too presumptuous, Donovan, but it seems to me that with your boss in jail, you might be out here looking for something else. If you need some work, we can talk about that.”

  And this took Donovan by surprise. A job offer? He hadn’t planned to stay in Denver that long, or to get in deep with any crew here, but he had to admit it could open up new avenues. Maybe give him new connections if things didn’t pan out with the Sinaloa. Or, it might land him in some business arrangement he would find himself unable to break.

  The wheels turned in his mind, considering, weighing.

  The bodyguard at Tyson’s left whispered something to him again. “What do you think?” Tyson said. “Want to go to work?”

  Part II

  Who Am I

  Chapter Fifteen

  MICAH LEANED his head into the building manager’s office to see if his packages had arrived. On the table where UPS always delivered sat a single box addressed to him, and he took the clipboard off the wall and scribbled his name to claim his package. Sometimes the manager was here, and back when Micah was drinking, she’d looked at him sideways every time. Now that he was a couple weeks sober, he hadn’t gotten the chance to show her the new Micah yet.

  He returned to his apartment and unboxed his 34 decibel safety ear muffs and a pair of Remington shooting glasses. If he was going to keep shooting at the gun range, there was no sense in renting the safety equipment each time. And he intended to go back as often as he could.

  Those squishy foam earplugs they’d given him had left his ears ringing for twenty minutes after he’d finished shooting the first time, anyway.

  He hadn’t grown up with guns, and hadn’t ever seen the appeal. But now, he hoped that shooting in a controlled environment might help him wrestle some of those old demons. And even if it didn’t, holding that piece of lightning in his hand still comforted him, to feel it kick back against him and jump like a barking dog with each squeeze of the trigger. Power, controlled destruction, gripped in his palm.

  He checked his phone to see if he had time to make an AA meeting before he needed to be back at Frank’s office, but he’d wasted too much time coming home for lunch. Frank usually let Micah come and go as he pleased, but Micah felt he owed the old ex-cop at least forty hours a week in exchange for his paycheck.

  Some shuffling outside the door. Micah cocked his head and got a look at two small shadows poking underneath, and then a piece of paper came sliding into his apartment.

  Micah crossed the room as the shadows disappeared. He opened the door and peered in both directions, but saw no one. He bent to pick up the note, then walked it back to the couch to read it.

  I heard you speak at a meeting the other day about how you think you got into an accident. Don’t ask me how I know this, but you’ll want to go to Glazer’s gym in Five Points. Edgar Zimmerle. Tall, buzz-cut hair. About fifty-five years old. Birthmark from his forehead to the middle of his left eyebrow. Can’t miss it. He saw the accident, and he’s willing to talk to you. Best of luck in finding what you’re looking for out there.

  Micah’s mouth dropped open as he scanned the note. Had he said something about the missing shoe and the car accidents at an AA meeting? His mind raced as he considered it. In those first few days after coming out of detox, he’d been desperate to unburden himself. Maybe he had said something. It was certainly possible.

  He went back out into the empty hall. “Hello?”

  No response. He could hear the married couple that he’d never introduced himself to chatting from outside their closed door, but otherwise, silence. He jogged down the hallway to the window looking out onto Cherry Creek and the flagship REI store, then craned his neck to see the street below. Dozens or maybe hundreds of people populated the street, talking and walking and living out their own interconnected and solitary lives. None of them able to shed any light on this weird little note that had magically appeared underneath Micah’s door.

  He walked back to his apartment, reading the note again and again, as if he could find some hidden meaning between the lines. If what the letter said was true, he might get the answers he was seeking. If it wasn’t true, maybe he was walking into some kind of setup. But how would he know unless he went?

  Chapter Sixteen

  DONOVAN PICKED through his bowl of leafy greens. He detested cilantro, and the salad he’d ordered was apparently drowning in the damn stuff. He would have preferred more chicken and less spinach, but the cook apparently didn’t share his definition of salad with grilled chicken. Eating at restaurants was like tossing a fishing line into the ocean.

  He’d wanted to order a bloody burger and mound of french fries, but he had to stop eating like he was on vacation. Get back into his healthy habits to make the most of his exercise routine.

  His lunch date, Hayden, was watching cars drive by from their spot on the restaurant’s patio. Despite the chilly air, they’d both said they wanted to be outside instead of in the crowded restaurant. Today was sunny, at least.

  He got the sense that she didn’t want to be here
today, or that she was doing it to prove something, to herself or to someone else.

  “What are you thinking about?” he said, breaking the silence of the last minute.

  She returned her attention to him. Or, he assumed she had. Hard to tell, because she was wearing a pair of enormous face-hiding sunglasses. “I used to like this restaurant. I’m not sure I do anymore.”

  “Uh,” Donovan said, “are you saying you want to go somewhere else?”

  She shook her head. “No, we’re good here. I’m just preoccupied with work.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’ll happen. Pesky jobs. Do you want to tell me more about what you do? You’re a therapist, right?”

  “Case Manager,” she said. “It’s like a therapist, but I get paid a lot less and I don’t get to do the same poking and prodding with the clients. Therapy is causes and conditions, but Case Management is about the here-and-now. It’s one of the most unglamorous professions in the world.”

  “Doesn’t sound so bad to me,” he said.

  “I'm sick of it. I'm so done with caring about it all.”

  “Not what you wanted to be when you were growing up?”

  “No, that would have been a ballerina. I got the moves, but I never exactly weighed the mandatory eighty-seven pounds.”

  “Seriously? You wanted to be a ballerina?”

  “Sure, when I was four. I guess I wanted to be a therapist in high school, but after college, I didn’t have the patience to go back for grad school.”

  “So, with all those Psych classes, you probably know how to analyze dreams, right?” Before she could respond, he continued. “You know that old show, I love Lucy? You know that one scene where Lucy is in the factory, and there're things coming down the assembly line–cupcakes, or donuts, or whatever, I don’t remember exactly–and she can’t keep up with them because they’re coming along too fast?”