He made it back out the window, bleeding a river down his face. He didn’t get far. Two pigs in a patrol car picked him up a block away. He banged into parking meters and shit as he ran, half blind from all the blood in his eyes, half-mad from the pain, his zipper still stuck half way down.
A funny scene, even Foerster could see the humor in it. But it turned ugly once he got back to the joint. He spent a night in the precinct house, took a trip to the doctor, then did three nights on Riker’s.
The wounds he got in jail were worse than the beating from hubby. The black guys in jail didn’t need to beat him up. They just got him three or four at a time, stuffed a sweaty doo-rag in his mouth, held him face down and did it to him. Jesus. And the fucking c.o.’s didn’t give a shit. It was all in fun, right? A guard even told him he should act like a man, stick up for himself more. The piece of shit said it while standing at the cell door, looking down at Foerster spread-eagled on the floor, cons sitting on each arm, a big two-hundred pound shrieking porch monkey grinding away on top of him.
Foerster didn’t give it easy, though. They did him, but he fought them first, and he got his shots in. He could say that much for himself. No matter what happened, they hadn’t broken his spirit. But he couldn’t imagine what serious time would be like and for a second it had looked as if serious time was in his cards.
As it turned out, the cops knew about the old woman. Maybe they didn’t know for sure, but they suspected. He thought about the woman for just a second, got an image of her. A white-haired biddy, with a clean honest face. The skin around her throat sagged and creased like an elephant’s knees. He had seen her on the street a couple times. She plucked something in him, like a finger twanging a guitar string. So he had taken her. He hadn’t planned it that way, but Foerster hardly ever planned these things. His desires came to him from some other place – he could go for weeks at a time without feeling anything. But when the thing started flowing, he always flowed with it. It felt natural. It felt right.
His mistake had been to let the old woman live. He had seen something in her eyes that night. They’d remained wide open and staring the whole time. She looked so gentle, like a doe paralyzed by the headlights of an onrushing truck. He couldn’t finish her. Not with those big eyes looking right at him.
He wondered: How long could she put him away? Ten years? Twenty years?
Life?
Foerster shook his head. No way. He was never going back to jail.
He stood up and got another half-cold beer out of the box. He tapped the empty on the edge of the sink until it cracked, then he placed it on a rickety white table piled high with similar empties. He once hit a guy in a bar three times with a beer bottle and it didn’t break. Then he learned. Crack ‘em just a little and they break on the first shot. Nobody likes to get a head full of glass.
He stood in the kitchen with his next beer and looked around. Shabby ass apartment. Roaches in the cabinets. He didn’t even have sheets on the bed, just an old mildewed mattress and a quilt. He needed to start treating himself better. First and foremost, he needed to stay out of the joint.
On that end, he was in good shape. He had stopped showering in case the cops came while he was naked with the water running. Instead, he was dressed and ready to go at all times. Every dollar he had was in his pocket. He had his bottles, and leaning in the corner he had his table leg. If all else failed, he had practiced his escape route until it didn’t even scare him anymore. There was a trick to it, one so dangerous no coffee and donut cop would ever attempt it – why get killed over nothing?
Foerster glanced at the kitchen window, where a threadbare curtain billowed in the breeze. He was waiting here, and he didn’t like it. He wanted to get moving. Tyler Gant – his man down south – needed him for another science project. It was easy work, the kind of thing a smart tenth-grader could probably pull off, but Gant didn’t seem to realize that. Pretty soon, one of Gant’s goons was supposed to come to Foerster’s door with an envelope. When Foerster opened that envelope, he was supposed to find $5,000 in cash. Then he was supposed to get in a car with the goon and drive down to Dixie.
Shit. Five grand in cash, and Foerster hadn’t even done anything yet? This job must be something pretty big. Wouldn’t it be nice if the goon showed up here today?
Just then, the doorbell rang.
***
Jonah stood in the bleak hallway and faced the solid green door to apartment 5C.
Weak light filtered through a translucent window at the other end of the hall. Solid glass bricks half a foot thick. Some kid had probably gone out the original window by accident, ended up with a broken neck in the street. Those glass bricks gave the only light – the overheads were all out. At night, this would be one dark hallway. On the wall, some new Picasso had drawn a mural in black magic marker, a big penis rubbing between a pair of breasts.
‘Every nigga has 2 scheme 4 da creme,’ read the caption underneath.
Nice building.
Sounds echoed through the halls. Laughter. Somebody shouting. Running feet. TV sets – the power was on. Water dripped somewhere. Plunk, plunk, plunk.
Jonah’s body shook, a little nothing tremor maybe nobody could see but him. He always got nervous before one of these gigs. It wouldn’t have taken much to throw up – if he thought too hard about his finger approaching the back of his throat, that might do it. Taking a shit would have been even easier. All he had to do was sit down.
In one hand, he held a clipboard with some bogus papers attached. In the other, he held a small black canister of pepper spray. It contained five bursts that could travel up to ten feet. The blasts would last one second each, fifteen percent OC every time. OC stood for Oleoresin Capsicum, fifty dollar words, but Jonah knew what they meant in plain English: STRONG SHIT. If he sprayed that stuff in Foerster’s face, the blood vessels in the man’s eyes would swell up, forcing them shut. His face would burn and the pepper would get down into his throat and lungs. He would start coughing up his insides. He would be under Jonah’s complete control.
Jonah slid the canister into his right back pocket.
The left back pocket was where he kept the handcuffs. They were chainlinks, nickel-plated all steel construction, and rated for police work. Gordo had scammed them from somewhere.
Jonah reached up to ring the bell one more time. Someone shuffled on the other side of the door. Jonah took a half-step backward.
‘Who is it?’ said a scratchy voice.
‘Mr. Foster?’ Jonah said. ‘Mr. Mark Foster?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Exterminator.’
‘What?’
‘Exterminator. I’m here to spray your apartment, sir.’
The peephole in the center of the door slid open. Jonah stepped in front so Foerster could get a good long look.
‘What’s your name there,’ the voice said, ‘Jake?’
‘Jake, that’s right.’
‘Who do you work for, Jake?’
‘The landlord sent me. Manor Property Management. I’m checking through all these apartments because of a roach infestation. Do you have any roaches in there, Mr. Foster?’
‘How do you know my name?’
‘Your landlord gave me all the names.’
‘My landlord can fuck off.’
Jonah sighed, just a working man getting nowhere with a customer. ‘Sir, I’m going to have to come in there sooner or later. There’s a roach problem in this building. If I have to call the office, they’ll just get the maintenance guy to let me in.’
He waved the clipboard as if that would tell the story.
The door opened a crack. Foerster kept the security chain on. An eyeball peered out at Jonah. ‘They have to give me twenty-four hours notice. You know that, right? You can’t just walk in here without notice.’
Jonah slid his right foot into the crack. Foerster tried to slam it shut but the foot was already there. Jonah shouldered the door hard. Once. Twice. Three times and he co
uld feel the chain going. Four times and it was loose. Five and he blasted the chain housing out of the wall. Then he was off balance and inside the apartment.
They faced each other in a kind of stand off, Jonah startled by the looks of the man. Unshaven, Foerster held an empty beer bottle in one hand – the hand with two fingers wrapped together in a cast. He was pale, almost a shade of yellow, as if light was bad for him. His skin hung on bone, like a vampire’s would.
‘Davis Foerster. I’d like you to come with me, sir.’
Foerster smiled, a wan and sickly sight.
‘You a cop?’
‘No, I’m not. I work for the courts. Why don’t you come along peacefully? That way nobody gets hurt.’ Jonah started to reach back to take the cuffs out.
‘Sure,’ Foerster said. He smiled that terrible smile again. He seemed relaxed, relieved even. ‘I'll be right with you. Just hold this for me, will you?’
He threw the beer bottle. They stood five feet apart, maybe less. Jonah ducked too late. The bottle bonked his head and shattered, spraying glass and beer all over him.
He backed away into the hall again, but things went funny. The hallway was black, and bright white spots – call them stars – shot across the dark field of his vision. They sparkled and left trails of glowing dust in their wakes. They looped and spiraled. Spiders spun cobwebs in the corners.
Then his vision came rushing back, brushing away the darkness. He was down on one knee like a man proposing marriage. Things had gone wrong right from the start. He fumbled the walkie-talkie out of his jumper. He’d better call Gordo quick.
He looked up and it all moved in long slooow mo. Foerster came out of the apartment. Now he had a thick wooden table leg. He carried it like a slugger in the on-deck circle. A long screw stuck out from the business end. The screw would attach the leg to a table. It looked nasty, like it could poke a nice hole through somebody.
‘C’mere,’ he said. ‘You wanna fuck with me, right?’
He swung the table leg full bore. Jonah jerked away, but the swing connected with his hand and knocked the walkie-talkie flying. The handset bounced off the wall, then hit the floor and broke into pieces. Jonah crawled backwards, pulling out his pepper spray. Foerster kept coming. Jonah shoulder-rolled and came up firing like a shortstop. He pressed the button on the top of the canister, but he aimed too low. The spray hit Foerster in the shirt.
Foerster gaped down at the wet stain and Jonah charged.
He hit Foerster hard and it was like tackling a scarecrow – there was no real substance to the man. He bulled him back into the apartment. They flew through the doorway and crashed to the floor. Jonah lost the pepper spray. Foerster lost the club.
Jonah landed on top. They wrestled. This close, Foerster smelled like cigarettes and body odor. Jonah was bigger and stronger, but Foerster raged with desperation. He screamed in Jonah’s ear, and squirmed away like an eel. Jonah reached for Foerster’s waistband, snagged it with his finger, lost it.
‘Shit!’
Jonah rose to his feet and picked up Foerster’s club himself. He adjusted his grip on it. The weight felt good. That screw stuck out thick and mean.
A glass bottle shattered near his head. He looked up. Foerster stood behind a paint-peeling white table. It was piled up with empty bottles – beer bottles, wine bottles, hard stuff. Foerster grabbed another bottle and threw it. Jonah ducked and it smashed against the wall. He felt the wet tingle of the glass.
‘Get the fuck out of my house,’ Foerster said.
Jonah ran down his options. He thought fast. The club might break this guy in half. Look for the pepper spray instead? That meant turning his back. Lost seconds. Time for Foerster to move. Fuck his M.O. – did he have a gun in the fridge? Maybe. Under the pillows? Jonah didn’t want to find out.
Let him have it with the club? Of course.
He moved in.
Foerster threw another bottle.
Jonah swung.
He connected, spraying beer and shards of glass all over himself. He took another step forward.
‘This is a citizen’s arrest,’ he said.
Foerster threw again. He threw to the right and high. The bottle smashed harmlessly. He picked up two more, one with each hand, and let fly. His aim was gone. Beginner’s luck that first time. Jonah charged him, the club raised high. He brought it down like a woodsman splitting logs – knees bent, legs planted, his thighs and back doing the work, the force of it like electricity through his body, grip so firm his knuckles stood out in white.
The club smashed the empty bottles, then sliced through the table. The table broke in half, then separated and fell in. Glass went flying, a fountain of glass. The sound was like a car crash. Foerster dropped way back, then dove out the window.
‘He’s coming out! He’s coming out!’
Jonah went to the window and stuck his head through it. Foerster aimed a kick. His foot whistled just past the edge of Jonah’s nose. Jonah ducked back.
He counted to three then poked his head out again.
He caught a glimpse of Foerster’s head going down the stairs. Jonah dropped the bat and clambered out onto the ironwork. It had been white once but now was flaking with rust. Across the alley was the old fire escape to the abandoned building next door. He went to the railing and glanced around five stories below. Gordo’s round moon face stared up at him.
‘He’s coming down!’
Gordo raised his arms upward like he was praising his maker. ‘Bring him to me.’ His voice echoed off the brick walls.
Jonah hit the stairs, taking them two at a time. He reached the first landing, turned the corner and two seconds later stood at the top of the next flight. One floor down, Foerster was perched up on the handrail like a bird on a telephone wire, grasping the stairs behind him with one hand.
It was three stories to the street and Jonah thought he had a jumper.
‘Foerster! Don’t do that!’
Foerster didn’t even give him a glance. He let go of the stairs, bent deep at the knees and launched himself out into nothing like a squirrel from a tree.
Jonah’s stomach lurched.
Foerster flew across the alley and crashed into the neighboring fire escape half a floor below. He hit it railing high, catching the railing in his stomach. The whole fire escape shook with the impact. Foerster hung on, legs dangling, and yanked himself up and over the railing. He fell onto the landing and rolled over, holding his gut. Then he began crawling up the stairs.
Jonah watched as Foerster, gaining his feet now, reached the landing across from and a little above his own. Foerster stopped and leaned on the railing, breathing hard. Right there, but just out of reach. He looked over at Jonah and flashed his nasty smile.
‘Nothing to it if you have the balls,’ he gasped. Then he continued on his way.
Jonah leaned over the side again. Gordo’s big face still loomed there. It hadn’t seemed like such a terribly long way down just a minute ago. Now it looked like the Grand Canyon.
‘I can’t reach the ladder on that side,’ Gordo called. ‘It’s folded all the way up.’
Of course. Foerster planned it that way.
Jonah surveyed the situation. Crunch time had come. Lose the skip and you might never see him again. It was one of the first rules Gordo taught him. The skip makes you and gets away, tomorrow he’s gone. Wherever he can get to. It could be New Jersey, but it might as well be Bangkok, as far as you’re concerned.
Well, if a skinny bastard like Foerster could do it…
That decided him. A moment later, Jonah was up on the railing. Precious seconds ticked by. Between his shoes he saw all that open space. Gordo’s face watched from the bottom of a deep well. Ten miles across the alley, and a little bit below, the landing of the opposite fire escape beckoned. Everything seemed to swim and spin.
Now or never, said the demon.
Climb down and forget the whole thing, said the angel.
He bent like he had seen Foerster be
nd, a full squat. He imagined himself leaping and landing on the other side. Like shooting a free throw, that’s all. See it happen and then do it. In his mind, he saw it happen. To his fevered imagination, it looked like an elf dancing from mountaintop to mountaintop.
See it happen. See it happen.
Do it.
He launched, everything in his legs.
The ground rushed up. The fire escape came at him on an angle. He fell too long and he was sure he had missed it. Then he hit like a meteor. The railing caught him in the stomach and his air whooshed out. He slid, grabbing madly for anything. The rail jammed into his armpits, his hands found grips, and he held on for dear life. The iron shook all the way up, and for a second he thought his extra weight would bring the whole thing down. It didn’t. They made those things to last.
Far away, he heard a long whoop that told him Gordo was cheering.
Jonah pulled himself over the railing and collapsed to the deck. He gave himself a moment to let his wind come back. The cool metal slats pressed against his face. He was shaking a little, but not bad. He was alive and the chase was still on.
He groped his way to his feet. Foerster must have felt him land. Jonah needed to move fast. He climbed, dragging up the stairs at first, then catching a rhythm and starting to hit it. One landing, around the corner and more stairs. Another landing, no idea where Foerster was now. Did he go in a window?
Jonah kept pushing, guessing the roof. He passed another landing, then another. Did he hear breathing above him? He kicked the engine into another gear. He reached the top landing, eight floors he thought, he wasn’t sure. Some view up there. The city, impossibly vast, stretched away in every direction. Near the horizon, something big was on fire, belching thick, dark smoke. He didn’t have time to dig it because there went Foerster, twenty yards ahead, tearing ass across the black tar.
The Hit Page 2