by Kitchin, Rob
Behind me I hear the continual whoop of the siren. Clearly the crash has little delayed the cruiser.
I glance back in time to see the police car mount the wide pavement. There are only a few pedestrians, but they’re all wise enough to start scattering.
I drop down off the curb slicing diagonally through the closely packed, slow moving traffic. I travel on the centre line for a few meters then dash across the two lanes of on-coming cars, horns blaring. At the next junction, I hang a left and disappear into an old residential district, the police car still trying to negotiate its way across Telegraph Road.
No doubt there are half a dozen police cars all converging on the area.
I feel like I’m in a game of pac-man.
* * *
To anybody that spots me I must look like I’m wearing a dark blue shirt, rather than the sky blue one I put on half an hour ago. The sweat is oozing out of every pore.
If they were giving out prizes for the town’s dumbest citizen I must stand a pretty good chance of taking first spot. Kate, I mean Kathy, has led me on a merry dance for seven months, then whilst on the run from the cops I ring them and advertise my location. Duh!
I cruise to a halt and jump off the bike. I’ve somehow managed to evade the police for the last couple of minutes. I guess a little spatial knowledge pays off every now and then. I’m in an alley behind the imaginatively named, The Grill. I daren’t go to the front entrance. I tuck the bike in behind a dumpster, hiding it from view, slipping the helmet over the handle bars.
The gunk on my leg seems to be melted on. I scratch at it, managing to get rid of the worst elements. I smooth down my hair, straighten my tie, and try and tuck the shirt back into my trousers. I’d have been better off wearing the t-shirt, rotating the arrow so it pointed to my head.
I feel like the last man standing. I have no real idea what the hell I’m going to say to Aldo Pirelli, other than if he can get Annabelle and Sally back and get the five of us out of the situation we’re in he can have the million dollars. No questions asked. I’ll even work the next thirty years to give him the interest owed. Even if it’s his money to begin with, a million saved has to be worth some kind of reward.
Nobody likes to lose a million dollars. Right?
What the hell am I doing here? I don’t have the million dollars to give him. What I have is two bodies, an idea as to who has the million dollars, and a willingness to beg for understanding and mercy. This really is a stupid plan, but what else am I going to do? I’ve lost Annabelle, Sally and Kate. God knows where Jason and Paavo are and I’ve no way of contacting them. If I go to the police, who knows what will happen. Aldo Pirelli runs this town, if anyone can sort this mess out it’ll be him. I’m sure we can work out a payment plan.
I head to the back door along a path sided by crates of empty bottles. I knock and wait.
Nothing stirs.
I try again.
I must be certifiable.
This time it’s yanked open by a man in his late thirties wearing a scowl, a hairnet, and a filthy chef’s apron. He’s holding a meat cleaver in a somewhat threatening manner.
‘Si?’
‘I’m here to see Aldo Pirelli.’
‘Who?’
‘Aldo Pirelli.’
‘I never heard of him.’ He slams the door.
I take a deep breath and knock again.
The door opens quickly, the cleaver stopping just short of my nose.
FUCK!
‘Are you deaf or stupid?’
‘Stupid,’ I answer. ‘Mr Pirelli owns this bar.’
‘I never heard of this Mr Pirelli. Now scram before I use this,’ he wiggles the cleaver, ‘to cut you a new ass.’
I stagger back a couple of paces.
‘Can you tell him Tadhg Maguire is here to see him?’
The door slams closed.
Fuck. Now what? I could try the front entrance, but that means having to travel half a block along a busy street. I scan the various windows. They’re all protected by vertical bars.
I could really do with Annabelle right now. She’d know what to do. She’s the brains of our crew. She’d get out her notebook and sketch out the permutations and arrive at some logical solution. I’ve hit a brick wall and am out of ideas. The front door seems the only available route. I wander back through the beer crates to the dumpster. I might as well cycle round. At least then I stand some kind of chance of getting away should the police turn up.
The back door opens. A man mountain in an ill-fitting suit fills the frame.
‘You Maguire?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s your lucky day. Mr Pirelli will see you.’
I wander back to the door.
The mountain’s face is large, round, flat and full of little pock marks, like it was pressed in a pancake maker. He’s enormous, but not in a Jason kind of way; more like The Rock.
We enter a kitchen. The chef is hacking at meat on a bone. He doesn’t look up as we pass through. We enter a short hallway. The Rock points at a flight of stairs.
‘Couldn’t we meet somewhere more public, like the bar?’ I ask.
‘You don’t want public,’ he growls.
I don’t have an answer for that, so I climb the stairs, The Rock close behind. At the top we head to the rear of the building, entering a small room with nothing in it other than a couple of chairs, a desk and a bookcase holding a few novels. Outside of the window are bars painted white that are stained with rust.
‘Wait here.’
‘Where’s Mr Pirelli?’
‘He’s on his way.’
The Rock closes the door behind him and I hear the sound of a key turning in the lock.
Oh God.
I try the handle, but the door is locked.
‘Hey! Hey!’
‘Pipe down, Red. You don’t want me to come back in there to subdue you.’
He’s right. I don’t. I’ve seen skimpier looking bulls. Perhaps this wasn’t such a clever idea.
* * *
Half an hour later and I’m starting to get pretty damn nervous. The adrenaline from the bike chase has dissipated and I’m coming to terms with the knowledge that I’m sitting in a locked room in Pirelli’s lair. I might be beyond the long arm of the law, but I’m in a far more dangerous place. The police might not like the answers I give them, but they’re unlikely to yank out my fingernails or hold burning cigarettes against my skin to make me talk. And it’s prison that beckons at the end of the day, not concrete boots and the bottom of a lake.
I need to stop watching gangster movies.
The books on the case are all well thumbed romance novels. They seem curiously out of place in a room which would be difficult to associate with love. It’s bare, functional and needs a good clean. I’m starting to wonder whether I should slot the battery back into my mobile phone and call Gerlach. Throw myself at his mercy.
The key turns in the lock and The Rock enters followed by a little old man dressed in an immaculate dark grey suit. He must be a quarter of the size of his bodyguard. His silver hair is neatly parted and he’s wearing a pair of bottle glasses that magnify his eyes, giving him a slightly comical appearance.
There is nothing amusing, however, about Aldo Pirelli. His reputation for ruthless efficiency precedes him. Carrick Springs might be a relatively small town, but it is has a large hinterland stretching for fifty miles or more and Pirelli controls it all. If there is a way of making a clandestine profit he’s found and exploited it.
‘Search him,’ Pirelli orders.
The Rock kicks my legs apart and runs his hands along my arms, over my torso, and down my legs. He takes my wallet from my back trouser pocket and throws it on the table. He taps the front pocket and I pull out the cell phone and the battery.
Pirelli takes those. ‘Sit!’ he barks.
I drop gratefully into a hard chair, my legs having turned to jelly.
‘So, Tad Maguire.’
‘Tadhg,’ I co
rrect, my eyes tracking The Rock as he takes up a position behind me.
‘Tad, Tadhg, who gives a fuck? You have a lot of balls to come here. A lot of balls.’
If only he knew. I bet that right now I have bigger balls than The Rock. But probably only just.
‘It seems you’re the talk of the town,’ Pirelli continues. ‘The police radio is talking about nobody else. And you turn up at my door! What are you trying to do, get my place raided?’
‘No, no, Mr Pirelli. I came … I came to ask for help.’
‘Help? Do I look like a charity to you, son?’
‘No.’
‘No. That’s because I’m not. Now if you have a business proposition, that’s a different matter. Do you have a business proposition?’
‘Not exactly. I … I …’
‘Spit it out, son.’
This guy is making my balls shrink just by being in his presence. I’m a journalist. Not a very good one, but I’ve heard the stories. Pirelli would have no problem putting me through a meat grinder and feeding me to pigs. He doesn’t need to look scary to scare a man half to death, his reputation does that.
‘I … I know where to find Tony Marino and how to get your million dollars.’
He snorts a laugh, his eyes crinkling. ‘Tony doesn’t have the million dollars.’
‘I … I know. Kate, I mean, Kathy … this woman I live with does.’
‘She doesn’t have it either, Tad.’
‘She doesn’t?’
‘No. She says you do. She’s been trying to track you down. She even contacted me. She thought I might be holding you. She wanted to trade. Half the money for Annabelle Levy.’
What the …?
‘I … I …’
‘Of course, I have no interest in Annabelle Levy, except if she’ll cut me in for a share of Annabelle’s Delights. Kathy’s working on it. She understands how things work. Now that would be a nice bit of business. Half a million dollars and a share in a company that must be worth ten million dollars plus. Maybe twenty million. Who knows? Plus all the chocolate I can eat, of course.’
He smiles again.
Kate has Annabelle, I supposedly have the million dollars, and Pirelli has me. I’ve surpassed myself in the stupidity stakes. Voluntarily handing myself over to Pirelli really was a moronic move of monumental proportions. I should be sectioned and put in a home for imbeciles.
‘I also hear on the grapevine that Earl Jenkins is also looking to trade with you, that is, if he can track you down. A million dollars for Sally Krebs. As is Leroy Taylor.’
‘Leroy Taylor?’ I mutter.
‘Black guy. Bald. Has a temper on him like a tempest.’
Barry White.
‘He has your friends Jason Choi and Paavo Poukasomething,’ Perilli continues, obviously enjoying himself. ‘The only problem for Mr Jenkins and Mr Taylor is I have you and I’m not interested in Sally Krebs, Jason Choi and Paavo Poukawhatever. And if I didn’t have you, you’d be facing a very difficult choice. Running away with a million dollars in used notes or saving one or two of your friends.‘
Fuck!
Fuckity fuck fuck! It’s like a kidnapping Mexican standoff. Each party has a hostage and they all want the same thing – the million dollars.
‘I’ve made the choice for you, I’m afraid,’ Pirelli continues. ‘And only if Miss Levy agrees to my terms. Half a million dollars plus a fifty percent stake in her company. Otherwise, I’ll just take the million dollars and leave her to her fate. Kathy can be a vindictive little she-devil when she wants to be.’
‘I … I …’
My brain is freewheeling.
‘I hope for your sake that Annabelle sees sense, Tad. So, where’s the million dollars?’
So maybe not quite a multiple Mexican standoff, more just Kathy and Pirelli. And Kathy’s playing on Pirelli’s terms, but only if I can magic up the money.
‘Tad?’
‘I don’t have it.’
‘Now is not the time to be playing games, Tad. I really don’t have the time. Once I’ve sorted this spaghetti western out, I have to deal with Mr Jenkins and Mr Taylor. They’re both out of their territory and out of their league. The gun fight they had out at the interstate truck stop last night was just crass stupidity.’
‘Gun fight?’
‘Your girlfriend, Tad, is a very nasty piece of work. But I digress. The million dollars.’
‘I don’t have the million dollars. The first I ever heard about it was today when Redneck, I mean, Mr Jenkins turned up at my house demanding it. At that time he had Kate, Kathy, hostage.’
‘And did you give it to him?’
‘NO. Look, Mr Pirelli, I don’t have the million dollars. If I did, I would give it to you. As it is, I wouldn’t even know where to begin looking for it.’
Pirelli shakes his head as if dealing with a truculent student.
The fist swipes in from the side, lifts me up and out of the seat.
Jesus, Joseph, Mary and the twelve disciples! I think The Rock might have ruptured one of my kidneys. I drop to the floor, my eyes watering with the pain.
The Rock has a punch that could knock in nails. He pushes the chair out of the way and lifts me to my feet.
‘Let’s try again, Tad,’ Pirelli says, lighting a fat cigar. ‘Where’s the million dollars?’
‘I … I don’t know.’
‘Wrong answer.’
A fist slams into my other kidney. I drop to one knee. The Rock lifts me back to my feet by my hair.
Holy crap! I’m going to be pissing blood next time I go to the toilet. Assuming I last that long.
‘I know a million dollars might sound a lot to you, Tad. But believe me, it isn’t worth the beating you’re about to receive. Just tell me where the Goddamn money is!’
‘Maybe Tony Marino has it,’ I suggest, trying to buy some time. White lies have to be better than The Rock’s fists.
Pirelli just chuckles at my answer. ‘Kathy says you have it.’
‘I swear to God,’ I mutter. ‘I don’t have the money and I don’t know where the money is.’
Pirelli pushes his chair back, rising to his feet.
‘I’m going to get a drink. When I get back in fifteen minutes, you’d better have an answer or life as you know it is going to end.’
Life as I know it has already ended.
Pirelli and The Rock leave the room, locking it behind them. I slump down on the chair. I’m in too much pain to think clearly, but I’m going to give it a good go.
* * *
It’s stiflingly hot in the room and the window refuses to open. I have absolutely no idea where to find the million dollars. The house had been turned over thoroughly. Which means that it must be somewhere else. I have run through every place I can think of. Every location that I ever visited with Crazy Kate.
Nothing. Zip. Nada.
Which leaves Pirelli with a problem, and me with a bigger one.
Annabelle, Sally, Jason and Paavo are relying on me to come up with a solution and I have absolutely sweet FA to offer.
I hope they’re doing okay. That they’re being treated well, but somehow I doubt it. They’re probably tied up and are getting fifty seven varieties of crap beaten out of them.
What a fuck up.
I wonder how Pirelli is going to react to my lack of inspiration. Not with too much charity, I suspect. As the man says himself, he doesn’t do good causes. Once The Rock is finished with me I’ll probably be little more than a human marshmallow.
I take my wallet off the table and open it up. It contains forty two dollars and a visa card with a five thousand dollar limit. I doubt that’s going to get me far. I slip it into my back pocket.
A few moments later the door is unlocked and The Rock walks in followed by Aldo Pirelli. The Rock takes his position behind me and Pirelli lowers himself slowly into the other chair. In his right hand he’s holding a glass filled with amber liquid. From the smell I’d guess whisky.
‘Well
?’ he prompts.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Pirelli. I had no idea Kate had a million dollars,’ I babble, the words spilling out. ‘None. She didn’t tell me anything about it. I don’t think it’s in my house because somebody has already turned it over looking for it. If I knew where it was, I swear to God I’d give it to you. Cross my heart and hope to die.’
‘That can be arranged,’ Pirelli says drily. ‘I’ve just been speaking to young Kathy. She’s adamant that you have the money. She wasn’t so happy when I told her that you’re with me, however. She was hoping to get to you first. She is refusing, however, to tell me how she knows you have it. If she can’t have half, then she’d prefer we both have nothing. Ballsy, wouldn’t you say?’
I stare at him stony faced. I’ve had enough of balls for one day.
‘All she would say is to tell you to use your head,’ he continues. ‘Then she laughed.’
Use my head? What kind of a clue is that? I’ve been using my head all day and look where that’s got me. Up shit creek without a paddle, boat or life raft. If there’s one thing I don’t trust right now, it’s my head.
‘It wasn’t a very pleasant laugh,’ Pirelli says. ‘I’m not sure she’s playing with a full deck of cards to tell you the truth.’
No shit. The woman is clearly barking.
‘Does that mean anything to you?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I answer truthfully.
‘I didn’t think it would.’
‘It does seem, however, that she’s persuaded your friend Annabelle to part with a share of her company for her freedom. That’s the trade – you and the mythical million dollars for half of Annabelle’s Delights. I had a quick chat with Annabelle to confirm that. She’s certainly a feisty young woman.’
‘Annabelle will sign over fifty percent of her company to you?’ I say incredulously.
‘Don’t sound so surprised, Tad. Most people give me what I want in the end, even if they don’t like doing it.’
I can’t believe that Annabelle would sign over half her company. She’s invested so much into it. She’s either bluffing, hoping to find a way out of the situation later on, or she thinks she’s saving her four loser friends.
Or at least one loser friend.