THE POLITICS OF PLEASURE

by Mark Russell

  YOU HAVE JUST BEEN:

  PLEASE TICK

  A: BASHED ( )

  B: ROBBED ( )

  C: TRULY FUCKED OVER ( )

  BY THE VULTURES M.C.

  The Devil's Jokers were armed and on their way to have it out with the Vultures. Tempers were high. Though Dirty Dave hoped to hear the Vultures' side of the story. Things didn't smell right. He sensed a third party had done the grizzly deed and left the card on the dead chemist's chest. In the hope the Devil's Jokers and the Vultures would start an escalating war; thereby giving this third party (most likely crooked cops aligned with another bike club) a bigger slice of the booming amphetamine market.

  In any case, the pack of Devil's Jokers weren't impressed with the bronze Ford that had forced one of their life members to drop his hog. Traffic from all sides of the street braked and honked as it neared the cluttered intersection. The burble of idling motorbikes drowned out the protestations of bristling motorists.

  Dirty Dave gunned his Low Rider and looked on impatiently as Spider got on his feet and hobbled over to his scraped Harley, its engine oil leaking onto the street. Spider slipped on the oil then hoisted his motorcycle into an upright position. He gave a thumbs up and in a slow, dignified manner wheeled his Harley from off the road. His fellow bikers revved their gurgling machines and roared off in unison after the Ford.

  Goldman cursed as the cars in front suddenly braked. Giggling teenage girls dawdled in the middle of a pedestrian crossing. Dressed up and out on the town, keen to dish out their particular school of teenybopper mayhem. Goldman saw the Ford skid to a halt behind him. A hard-faced man with black hair pulled back in a ponytail drew a handgun and climbed from the front passenger seat. Goldman was at first fearful.

  Then he saw a chance.

  He reversed back and crunched the front bumper of his pursuers' vehicle, which caused the alighting gunman to bump his head and drop his weapon. Better positioned, Goldman wrenched his steering wheel anti-clockwise and cut around the tittering teenage girls on the crossing. The gangly youngsters openly insulted him. Once past them and their name-calling, he veered right (much to the relief of the driver of the first stopped car on that side of the street) and returned to his lane, which was now empty of traffic a good distance ahead. He stomped the gas pedal, enlivened by the success of the manoeuvre. His elation, however, was short-lived, for once again the Ford loomed menacingly in his rear-view mirror.

  Damn! He punched the inside roof of his car. No sooner had he vented his frustration than several bikers swarmed the vehicle that had stuck strenuously to his tail. A flicker of hope flared inside him.

  Dirty Dave moved in closer to the bronze Ford. He tilted his bike to counteract the force of kicking in the driver's door. He put the boot in twice and the door crumpled inward, offering token resistance. Wielding a weighty chain with an attached padlock, another biker smashed the car's rear left window. The same biker accelerated his FXE Super Glide and slammed the chain across the car's windscreen. The gunman with the ponytail put his arm out the window and fired a warning shot in the air. Bringing a gun into play only made matters worse. The outlaw bikers were only too keen for a little warm up before making mince meat of The Vultures.

  Dirty Dave slowed his '80 Low Rider until he came alongside the back end of the Ford. He whipped out a sawn-off Remington shotgun from his motorbike's custom leather holster. With an expertise garnered from similar encounters, he braced himself and shot apart one of the Ford's rear tyres. The gunmen panicked as the back of their car lurched violently to one side. The exposed wheel-rim spewed a brilliant stream of orange-white sparks as it engaged the roadway.

  Goldman heard the Remington's thunderous discharge as he executed a move as daring as Dirty Dave's shotgun assault on the Ford. Stuck at the back of the street's slow-moving traffic, Goldman, without indicating, performed a riotous left-hand turn. Cars in the lanes he cut across braked sharply. Some momentarily skidded, while all drivers involved cursed the chemist's nerve-racking move.

  Dirty Dave shot apart another of the Ford's tyres. The gunmen in the car lost sight of Goldman and much else as they careened out of control. Their car's slanting angle and dramatic shower of sparks only highlighted their desperate plight. The maimed sedan plowed into a retractable Cyclone fence fronting a used-car lot. A span of flapping red and white pennants broke part and spilled across the crumpled hood of the crashed and steaming Ford, only adding further humiliation to the gunmen in the car.

  Goldman sped down the side street he'd brazenly claimed. He'd never been so happy to see a pack of outlaw bikers, and couldn't imagine similar happiness should he again encounter any of their kind. After some arbitrary turns into nondescript back streets, he knew he was out of harm's way. Several minutes later he drove into the multi-storey parking lot of a late-night shopping centre. After finding a secluded spot, he parked and killed the engine.

  He closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat, his body thrumming with nerves. His hands were still locked about the wheel as he imbibed the parking lot's relative tranquility, quiet but for a faint squeal of tyres on a down-below level and the creaks and pings of his own embattled car. He couldn't believe the obstacles he'd bettered during the hair-raising escape from his apartment. He wiped his clammy brow and breathed a sigh of relief. Though his heartbeat had returned to normal, his parched mouth and unsteady hands betrayed the adrenalin still flooding through him. He tried to picture the final confrontation between the bikers and the gunmen in the Ford. Whatever the outcome it couldn't have been pleasant.

  He wallowed in the serenity of long, uneventful minutes. But it wasn't the time or place to rest. There was no escaping the fact he was on the road with no place to go, save for his tenuous meeting with Michelle – though he supposed it was better than nothing at all.

  Slumped behind the wheel, he came up with a viable course of action. He climbed out of his ticking car, opened the trunk and rummaged through his tool box. After grabbing spanners and screwdrivers, he studied the sea of parked vehicles about him. He brightened, hardly believing his luck. A Saab 900, the same model as his own, was parked several rows over. After waiting for some elderly shoppers to pass, he walked casually over to this other vehicle.

  Several testy minutes later, he started his own Saab and drove out of the multi-tiered parking lot. In the patchy light of a tree-lined side street, he fitted his car with the registration plates he'd stolen. He was too concerned for his own survival to give much thought to the owner of the other Saab should he or she come under the scrutiny of the law for bearing the wanted chemist's plates.

  He started his car, which looked to have finished a gruelling cross-country rally. After studying a Baltimore street map, he plotted a backstreet course to keep his appointment with Michelle.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Belize Cheraz and a police officer screeched to a halt in a blue and white Baltimore Police cruiser. Its revolving roof light competed with the blaze of the burning cars blocking Goldman's street. A cacophony of approaching sirens filled the air. Emergency personnel and police units would claim the unattended crime scene.

  After leaving Goldman's apartment Belize had gone straight to authorities (Manuela had genuinely warmed to the prospect of being left at a police station. Belize knew her sister would feign a lack of English while waiting in whatever hallway or room, while nursing whatever lukewarm coffee or drink; all the while winding down from her harrowing experience with the gunmen). Belize had involved the law because she wanted to get to the heart of the matter. Had those pistoleros burst in because of what Scott had stolen from his work? Or was it another matter entirely? She hoped the gunmen were still unconscious on the apartment floor so police could ID them. She had to know what kind of trouble had befallen her Australian boyfriend. Whatever kind, she believed Scott had brought it on himself.

  Groups of onlookers spilled about the destroyed vehicles. Local dogs were embroiled in a barking contest, while sirens moved closer from all points of
the compass. To human and animal alike, urban propriety had been laid to waste.

  'Christ.' The swarthy young police officer moved from the patrol car and stopped beside Belize. He held up an arm to stave off the heat of the burning vehicles. Scrunching his face, he studied the shot-up panels and the sparkling pellets of window glass littering the street. 'Shoot, looks like we just missed the second Battle of Baltimore.'

  'Si,' Belize said, not knowing what he was on about. She looked about her, then sprinted down the short cul-de-sac leading to Goldman's apartment. She reached the top of Goldman's driveway and saw his garage was empty. Her heart lifted and she bolted up the apartment block's front steps. It dawned on her as she reached Goldman's upper-floor apartment (a shaft of pallid light spilled from its open door and did little to disperse the overall gloom of the walkway) that it would have been wise to have the policeman with her. Who knew what crazy pistoleros were still afoot?

  She pushed caution aside and peered through the open doorway. Rooker was no longer on the living room floor. 'Damn.' She pulled back and leant against the outside brick wall. She was tense and wired, from want of cocaine and from the thunderous pace of recent events. Madre del dios. What a night. The apartment seemed still and quiet, as if miraculously cocooned from the pandemonium outside. She took a deep breath and another look down the carpeted hallway. She half-expected Rooker, bloodied and livid, to jump from the shadows and pin her against the wall.

  A hand grabbed her shoulder.

  She gasped and spun about. 'Sorry, it's me.' The dark-haired police officer with a fresh shaving nick on his chin readied his revolver and entered the apartment. Belize followed. No one was inside. The gunmen were obviously made of tough stuff. She slid open the balcony door and walked outside, peering across the treetops at the burning cars blocking the street. She was confident Scott had used the pistoleros' guns on the gutted cars. A flaming signature she'd proudly deciphered.

  She watched police cars and a Baltimore City Fire Department truck skid to a halt in a fury of competing sirens and flashing lights. Police moved onlookers back. Firefighters swarmed about the truck, readying to douse the flames belching from the destroyed vehicles. A second fire truck parted the crowd and only added to the colour and commotion of the newly claimed crime scene. Uniformed men jumped down from the truck before it came to a standstill.

  Belize turned aside and moved closer to the policeman. 'Listen,' she said in a breathy voice, 'I'm really tired. Why don't you take me back to the station so I can make a statement.'

  'Sure.' The young officer re-holstered his service revolver and looked into her eyes. His nostrils twitched as if smelling the perfume Belize had liberally splashed on herself before bursting into the police station. Belize felt his gaze on her body. She turned him on. They both knew it.

  'Let's go.' He smiled but didn't step aside, as if wanting to prolong their closeness. Belize didn't intend to make a statement, official or otherwise. She would grab Manuela and sneak home, utilizing a willful guile which had often bettered her country's Fidelistas. She winked at the swarthy young officer, slipped around him, and headed for the door, hoping Scott was safe and would call her from a pay phone before the night was out. In her mind's eye she saw herself sliding into a hot bath, her brown breasts disappearing into the soapy water, her pert nose pleasantly numb from cocaine ...

  She stopped at the open door and looked either side of the shadowed walkway. With the police officer in tow, she hurried off into the night.

  Rod Haslow looked either side of him as he stood outside a public phone booth in China town, Washington DC. He'd driven with considered haste from Baltimore, staying just under the speed limit and keeping out a watchful eye for patrolling police cars.

  After escaping Goldman's apartment, he hadn't known where to go. Consequently he'd ended up in a late-night diner in South Baltimore, nursing a lukewarm coffee, mulling over his limited options. He was unsure whether to share his plight with anyone he knew: best friend Jake Travis who'd moved to Los Angeles; his bowling buddies (not likely); Irene Tamar, a friend of his ex-wife who'd been surprisingly sympathetic to his side of the split. He saw little benefit in contacting any of these people. He couldn't bear the humiliation of presenting his downtrodden tale, not to mention the unease he would instill in anyone bothering to hear him out. He was after all a federal fugitive. And, considerably worse, a man illegally marked for death.

  Sitting in the frosty light of the all-night diner, absently moving a salt shaker across a Formica tabletop, he was overcome with the hopelessness of his situation. He recalled a non-curricular text he'd read at university. It advocated a model of thinking which looked at a problem from every angle. A model which relied less on step-by-step logic and more on laterally derived solutions. He tried his best at the remembered process, but after a string of false starts became more disillusioned.

  Then it hit him.

  At first his mind couldn't entertain the notion. He looked about the deserted diner, its large wall clock ticking loudly in his ears, and knew there was nothing else. What had struck him like a jolt of current from a faulty switch seemed his best and only shot.

  If anyone could help him it was his brother.

  A master criminal who in all likelihood had contacts for any kind of illegal undertaking. Quite possibly he could get Haslow a new identity. God forbid, a false passport would see him out of the country. And money ...

  Apparently Peter had stacks of it. He was always one to boast about his ill-gotten gains. Haslow, in contrast, had been too frightened to go home for his check book, and so had extracted the cash limit from a Bank of America ATM before leaving Baltimore. He planned to withdraw the rest of his savings first thing Monday for fear of General Turner freezing his assets. Most likely the DIA general could wrap up the night's affair in any security classification he wished.

  Haslow's world had been turned on its head. What had been unthinkable for years was now his most promising prospect. Of course he was desperate, all and out. Of course he didn't know how his brother would take to him, especially after Haslow's long-standing repudiation of their kinship.

  He looked at his BMW parked at the curb. Was there an APB out on him and his plates? He didn't know. He knew he needed another drink, even as his stomach was soured from the night's alcohol. He'd just called Clarence McGuire, cocktail lounge owner and mutual friend of Haslow and Peter since orphanage days. He now had the phone number of the DC hotel where Peter was staying, in keeping with the arrangement he'd made with his brother the night before. His brother? The night before? It seemed so long ago. The world had a fleeting substantiveness to it. As if the street about him might metamorphose into another reality. His workaday life was behind him. In fact, it was history, relegated to the rubbish heap of the past without the decency of a proper burial.

  A throng of unfamiliar faces pressed past him on the street. Neon Chinese characters glowed preternaturally. Multi-hued hieroglyphs that offered little comfort. He looked skyward as if the heavens might offer a way out. An easy fix, an omen, a shiny star breaking through the cloud, anything ... but there was only the low-lying grayness blanketing the city. He glanced at the telephone number scribbled in black marker on the inside of his wrist. He was about to plunge deeper into the nightmare that had wrapped itself about him like the cloaking wings of a phantasmal creature. He felt to bang his head against the side of the booth so he could wake up and find he'd dozed in front of the late-night game after all, the familiar comfort of empty bottles at his side.

  But the night and city about him were no dream. Cold drizzle patted the nape of his neck. The start of a headache felt like a crown of screws tightening against his skull. He lifted up his collar and stepped inside the phone booth. Passing headlights made him squint as he grabbed the receiver and dropped a coin into the slot.

  General Turner powered his red and white Scout past the cluttered street entrance. His sweeping gaze took in the police cars, the laden tow trucks, the lingering by
standers, and the high-tech television news vans. The hive of activity had him seething. He hated it when plans went wrong. He abhorred failure, and abhorred even more those who brought such failure upon him. God help him when he saw Armstrong again.

  After Goldman's hair-raising escape, Turner's remaining men had carried Armstrong and his offsider from the apartment (most of the block's residents having gone onto the street to look at the burning cars). In keeping with the general's instructions, the gunmen had been stripped of ID and left in a secluded place; namely in a dark back corner of a nearby neighbour's yard. Turner knew the night's cold drizzle would facilitate the gunmen to drag their sorry asses to wherever they saw fit. If captured, he was confident the mercenaries wouldn't talk. They weren't that kind of men. In any case, there hadn't been enough time or a spare car to do anything more for them. Not that the big girls deserved any better, Turner had thought at the time. Jesus, what did their battered condition say of Goldman's fighting ability? The goddamn sonofabitch could hold his own all right.

  With the gunmen out of the way, the silver-haired general had waited for the police. He'd blended into the biggest group of onlookers after seeing whom he believed was Belize Cheraz in the first police vehicle to arrive (and the general was relieved beyond measure when she left in the same vehicle shortly after).

  With his CAC military ID badge, Turner identified himself to the burly Detective Lieutenant in charge of the crime scene investigation. Of course the two men hardly hit it off. The cop not caring one iota for the headstrong stranger with his flashy military credentials. Nevertheless Turner presented his claim the DIA had had Goldman and Haslow under surveillance for some time. The bag of drugs found in the abandoned apartment only furthered his premise that the chemists were selling classified military drugs on the black market, as well as selling amphetamine made at their workplace. Of course the shot-up and smashed-up living room only pointed to the chemists being caught on the wrong side of a dangerous drug-ring.