by Kitchin, Rob
Jason’s going to shit a brick. His basement is bursting at the seams, much like himself. To most people it looks like junk, but to him it’s all vital stuff; mostly what he euphemistically calls ‘collectibles’. And he’s very precious about it all. He’ll be given no choice now but to load some of it into the van to keep up the pretence.
We head down the alley to the garage.
‘What’s he doing back here?’ Jason asks, blocking the doorway.
‘Your mother’s in your room. She thinks we’re helping you clear it out.’
‘My mother … oh fuck! You’re going to pay big time for this, Tadhg,’ Jason says, waddling at top speed to the entrance to his basement lair.
Bring the man two bodies and he’s basically okay about it. Tell him his mother is in his room and his world falls apart. Go figure. I guess Mrs Choi is a damn sight scarier than two mummies. I’ve certainly never had the balls to cross her. And nor has Mr Choi, the most henpecked man on the planet.
‘Are you taking that gun in with you?’
‘Fuck.’ Jason turns on his heels and hurtles back to the garage, passing us without saying a thing. He hides the gun inside a large plant pot and sets off again.
Whilst Jason is keeping Mrs Choi occupied, Paavo and myself move the bodies to the van.
The only thing Paavo says is: ‘We need to wrap these in plastic.’
When I ask why, he replies: ‘The smell.’
Damn.
We head to Jason’s lair and help him carry six boxes to the van. They’re full of magazines, books, war games toys, cables and assorted forms of other crap.
‘You’re a dead man, Tadhg,’ Jason hisses. He’s changed clothes into red shorts, white sneakers with no socks, and a tent-sized black t-shirt with ‘Fat people are harder to kidnap,’ printed on the front. I’m not sure whether he’s wearing it as a challenge, a threat or to drop a subliminal message.
‘Relax, we’ll bring it back later.’
‘You sent my mother to my room!’
‘Did you want me to send her to the garage?’
‘Never send her to my room again.’
The man needs to get a bit of perspective.
3
Any man can make mistakes, but only an idiot persists in his error — Cicero
The five of us are in Paavo’s van – Paavo behind the wheel, me in the middle, Jason on passenger side, Marino and Junior in the back.
‘Head up Telegraph Road and stop at John Philips’,’ I instruct Paavo. ‘We need to buy gas to burn the clothes and mattress.’
John Philips’ gas station is a local institution. Gas station, grocery, diner and hardware store combined into one plot, braced by a large RiteAid store on one side and the Kill Fat Fitness Centre on the other. It was built in a different era, when it was probably a good mile outside of town on the road north and surrounded by fields. A low density mix of housing and strip malls crept out to meet it, skipped over its dated charm, and continued on its way, covering good quality soil with acres of tarmac and architecture that the next generation is unlikely to thanks us for. Stretching off on either side of the road is leafy, low density suburban sprawl, one subdivision after another.
‘We can get breakfast as well,’ Jason says, rubbing his ample stomach. The man is ruled by his appetite, which is prodigious.
‘Takeout,’ I say. Once Jason sits down we’ll be there an hour.
‘The works. I’m starving.’
‘Once you’ve lost three hundred pounds you’ll be starving. At the minute, you’re just peckish. You’ve just had a donut.’
‘An appetizer.’
‘We eat,’ Paavo states firmly.
‘We can eat after we’ve got rid of … you know,’ I gesture my thumb over my shoulder.
‘We eat now,’ Paavo re-states.
‘I really …’
‘Empty stomach, empty mind.’
‘Is that an army slogan?’ I ask, starting to lose my cool. ‘Fuck the army, we need to get rid of those two back there.’
‘Army knows best.’
The army knows best? Only someone in the army should live his life by army slogans. Everyone else should have a free pass.
‘We get the gas,’ I persist, ‘drive up to Old Malachy’s Mill, dump the bodies, torch everything else and then eat. What if we’re caught with Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-Dee?’
‘We go to jail,’ Paavo says calmly.
‘Exactly!’
‘With a full stomach.’
I’ve somehow managed to end up friends with a pair of idiots more focused on their next meal than the next twenty years. We pass one of Annabelle’s stores on our right. Annabelle’s Delights. Purple script on a pale pink surround, the window full of chocolate temptations. It’s still closed thankfully, otherwise Jason would no doubt want to stop for a little pick-me-up. Or a bucketful. And I’d find it difficult to pass up one of her brownies and Paavo would almost certainly have a mocha and a rum and raisin slab. Then we’d all be wired on a sugar rush breakfast. Not a good idea.
‘Well, I’ll go while you eat,’ I offer.
‘You don’t drive, remember,’ Jason says. ‘And you’re out-voted two to one.’
For flip’s sake! Jason’s ruled by his stomach, Paavo by army slogans. Friends: can’t live without them, can’t swap them for cash.
Paavo pulls in to John Philips’ lot and parks off to one side.
‘I’ll buy a container and the gas, you get matches or a lighter then get started on lining your stomachs,’ I say as we head towards the store. ‘I just want toast and a coffee.’
‘I knew you’d see sense,’ Jason says.
As if I had a choice.
We split up on entering the store. I head to the back and into an old-style hardware store and the motor sector. It is floor to ceiling shelves, all packed with boxes and gadgets. I pick out a red, gallon-sized plastic container and pay for it. I then head back out to the pumps and fill it up. I can’t take it back into the store like that so I head to the van. It’s locked and I don’t have the keys so I slide it under the chassis, out of sight. Hopefully nobody will steal it, or worse, pour it over the van and set it alight.
I head back in, pay for the gas and wander into the diner. It hasn’t been updated in fifty odd years. A set of low, red vinyl booths, large mirrors and automobile memorabilia on the walls, and an open kitchen at the back. Most of the booths are occupied with a cross-section of Carrick society, from long-haired truckers through to smartly dressed businesswomen. Paavo and Jason are sitting next to a window with a clear view of the van.
I slide in next to Paavo, Jason sitting opposite, his stomach squashed against the table edge.
‘Well?’ I ask.
‘It’s on its way.’
‘Good.’ There’s already a black coffee in front of me. I take a sip. Just the right side of too bitter. Hopefully this won’t take long and we can get on our way. I’m going to feel a damn sight less jittery once we’ve got rid of Marino and Junior, even though we’ll still have Redneck to deal with on our return.
A black woman in her mid-thirties slides into the seat next to Jason. She’s wearing a grey sweater with ‘Red Sox’ printed across it and her straightened hair is sticking out at odd angles as if she’d rolled out of bed and come direct to the diner.
‘Can I help you, Miss?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, you can tell me where to find that double-crossing bitch and my lying, cheating husband.’
‘Double-crossing bitch?’
‘Yeah, Kathy. And Ronnie.’
‘Kathy?’
‘Yeah, that double-crossing bitch you live with. You’re Tadger, right?’
‘Tadhg.’
This conversation is starting to get a little surreal. Who the hell are Kathy and Ronnie?
‘Whatever, honey. I want Ronnie, and my brother over there,’ she points a long, false nail painted red and dotted with silver stars over my shoulder, ‘wants Kathy and the money she stole from him.’
I turn back to the table and mutter: ‘Oh fuck.’
‘Oh fuck is right. My brother is one badass motherfucker. He wanted to come over here to persuade you to tell him where Kathy is. I told him it would be better if I spoke to you first. See if I could get some answers in a civilized fashion. Now, I’ve been driving half the night, I ain’t in a good mood, you understand? So, where are Kathy and Ronnie?’
A dim light bulb sparks into life in my addled brain. Kate and Junior. And the disheveled woman sitting opposite must be Denise. This is not good. This is not good at all. My stomach flips a double somersault.
The truthful answer is, of course, that her badass brother shot her big mouth husband and he’s lying like a mummy on a blood-stained mattress in the back of the white van outside and Kathy is being held by Redneck.
Instead I answer: ‘We don’t know. She left me.’
Denise puts her head in her hands and shakes her head. Then she clucks her tongue and places her hands together as if she is praying, her fingernails brushing her chin. ‘When?’
‘Last night.’
An elderly waitress wanders over with three plates balanced on her arms. ‘Three John Philips specials,’ she says, placing the plates in front of Paavo, Jason and I. ‘You want anything, dear?’ she asks Denise.
‘No thank you, Ma’am.’
‘Enjoy, fellas.’ The waitress shuffles off and I glance down at the plate. A heart attack waiting to happen – eggs, bacon, sausage, fried bread, waffles all piled high.
Jason has already started tucking in as if someone is about to whip the plate away. Paavo is too absorbed in the conversation to eat.
‘She went off with my Ronnie?’
‘I … I don’t know. She knocked me out before she left. Hit me with a lamp,’ I say truthfully.
It’s good to have some truth floating around.
‘Goddamn. He always did have a thing for that bitch. The thought of all that money probably got him hornier than a tomcat with four balls.’
We lapse into silence. Denise staring at the ceiling, Paavo staring at his food and Jason truffling like a pig at a trough. I’m staring at Denise. Junior is less than thirty yards away, but there’s no way I’m going to enlighten her on that score despite my desire to tell her that he did stay faithful; that there’s no need to doubt or hate him.
A hand slams into the back of my head and forces it down. My face smashes into the John Philips special.
FUCK!
If it wasn’t piled so high, and I hadn’t managed to turn my head slightly, I’d have probably broken my nose. My head is yanked back up again by my hair.
I’ve just let a fart go, except it wasn’t just a fart.
DOUBLE FUCK!
‘Where the fuck is she?’ Barry White asks in his slow, deep, gravelly voice.
Paavo has already risen to his feet, turning to confront Mr White.
‘SIT the fuck down,’ Barry commands.
Paavo throws a punch. Barry grabs the fist with one hand, yanks Paavo out of the booth with the other, his legs clunking into me, spins him round and launches him into the booth opposite, sending crockery, cutlery and two college kids flying.
Denise is on her feet, pulling at Barry’s belt with one hand, hitting his chest with the other. He swats her away, grabs hold of my hair again and twists my head so I am looking up at him.
He is one mean-looking son of a bitch and he has bottomless eyes.
He rumbles: ‘You better find that bitch and get me my money back or you’ll regret the day you were born.’ With that he lets go and strides out of the diner, oblivious to the chaos left in his wake. Denise trots out after him.
Paavo is being helped back to his feet when Kevin Philips, the latest of the clan to run the emporium, arrives at the table. ‘Are you okay, Tad? You want me to call the police?’
‘No. No, it’s okay,’ I say, still dazed, rising unsteadily to my feet, brushing food from my face. ‘It was just a misunderstanding.’
I shift my gait. I wonder if this place sells underwear. It probably has everything but.
‘Are you sure? He assaulted you and your friend. Caused one hell of a scene.’
‘No, it’s fine, Kevin, honestly.’
The last thing we need is the police turning up. Joe Gerlach already thinks we’re up to something dodgy. If he opens the back of the van we’ll be skydiving without a parachute. I fish my wallet out of my back pocket and drop a hundred bucks on the table. Sixty three dollars of it is from Junior.
‘For the mess. I’ll get tidied up and we’ll be gone. I’m sorry about everything.’
Jason tries to hide a burp and fails, then motions his fork at Paavo’s plate. ‘Do you think he’s going to eat that?’
* * *
We’re back in the van, the gas can at my feet. I tidied up as best I could in a thirty second dash. More just lubricated the cheeks than anything else. A little damp, but basically okay. Which is more than can be said for my body. Every bit of me aches. I’m not designed for this kind of carry-on. I’m more a ‘watch an action movie’ kind of guy than a ‘star in one’ kind. I don’t have any requisite skills to take on bad guys.
I’m more like the guy that cops it in the first thirty minutes for being a dumb ass.
Jason’s the fat computer geek who gets it in the first five minutes.
Paavo … Paavo’s just got his ass kicked. He either comes back John McClane-style, like in the Die Hard movies, or he slinks off with his tail between his legs, becomes an alcoholic and dies a sad lonely death in a shack out in the middle of nowhere. He hasn’t said a word since the diner.
None of us feel like talking. We’re lost in our own thoughts. Jason and Paavo are probably trying to work out why they’re friends with a dumb ass who’s managed to drag them into the warped and wicked world of Aldo Pirelli, Redneck and Barry White.
I’m trying to work out why the hell I didn’t just go to the cops in the first place. And why I didn’t let Kevin Philips call them five minutes ago.
Instead of stopping this madness, I’ve let it roll-on, compounding my initial mistake. Not that we have a choice any more. We’re up to our necks in a sea of shitty trouble. Plus Kate is a hostage. Plus there’s a million bucks on the line. Even if we try and call a halt to it all and the bad guys go to prison, they won’t forget their million bucks. And they won’t forget us.
Jason lets rip an enormous fart.
‘For fuck’s sake, Jase,’ I say, wafting at the air in front of my face. ‘Wind down that window.’
‘You can almost taste that one,’ he says proudly of the foul stench.
And he wonders why he’s single and only has a handful of loser friends.
Paavo turns hard right without warning, the tires screeching.
‘What the …’ I mutter, grabbing hold of Jason to stay in the seat.
The van speeds up, racing through a plush suburban estate. Without slowing, Paavo turns a hard left, cutting across the path of a SUV driven by a horrified mother, two kids in the back. Something behind us thuds against the inside of the van.
‘Paavo! Slow down.’
‘We’re being followed,’ he says calmly.
I look in the wing mirror. Behind us is a black Lexus.
Barry White and Denise.
Damn.
They obviously didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t know where Kate was.
Paavo turns hard left again, heading back to Telegraph Road. He sweeps right into the traffic, ignoring the red light and the blasts of horns.
Jason lets another loud fart rip.
‘For God’s sake, Paavo, you’re going to get us killed. And what if the cops stop us?’
He doesn’t answer, concentrating on weaving in and out of the traffic, one eye on the wing mirror. He swerves into the inside lane and mutters: ‘Hold on.’
Hold onto what? I’m in the
middle seat. The only thing to hold onto is Paavo or Jason. This is why they invented seat belts. This is why I should be wearing one.
I’d assumed that Paavo was going to cut across the traffic and hang a u-turn to head back into town. Instead he slams on the brakes performing an emergency stop, the tires squealing as they fight for purchase on the tarmac.
Unable to counteract the g-force, and despite my braced legs, I catapult into the dashboard.
Fuck!
I bounce back in time to catch out the corner of my eye the Lexus fly by on our right, Barry White fighting to steer the car into the parking lot of a Wendy’s and avoid the low wall fronting the premises. He manages it, but only just and ploughs into the side of a minivan, before pin-balling down a row of parked cars.
Behind us a chorus of horns is blaring.
Paavo has already started to pull away. In the side mirror I can see cars slewed at odd angles across the road. Paavo has not only managed to lose Barry White, but to also cause a major pile-up.
On the bright side, that should keep the cops busy while we get rid of our load. On the downside, some poor bastards might well be heading to hospital and dozens more will have the pleasurable experience of negotiating with insurers and body shops.
Another set of offences to append to the charge sheet; another load of guilt to add to the conscience.
Damn.
* * *
We’re five minutes up the road, cruising at the speed limit, moving out beyond the town into countryside, the highway lined by trees and the occasional open patch of grass surrounding large ranch style houses. Paavo hasn’t said a word. Jason hasn’t stopped babbling.
‘Did you see him, man? He zoomed up and,’ Jason slaps his hands together loudly, shouting ‘Bam!’ at the same time. ‘Fucking awesome!’
‘Jesus, Paavo, you could have killed someone,’ I say, turning to face the taciturn Finn.
‘I was trying to.’
‘He bounced off those parked cars like a fucking pinball,’ Jason continues, slapping his hands on the dashboard, making crashing noises with his mouth.
‘For fuck’s sake, Jason,’ I snap. ‘Shut the fuck up!’