Hard Yards

by J. R. Carroll

  When he arrived at the fence he stopped. An old, sprawling type of place – that meant plenty of ways to get in. That porch light was a worry. Fair enough, Mai Ling would put it on for him, but if she was in danger surely it was an invitation to the wrong people too – unless they were already in there. Unless Diaz, or whoever, had switched it on to lure Barrett into a carefully arranged man-trap. He listened: no television, music – no sound at all from inside the house. Except for the lights, no sign of life. Bright stars overhead, no moon. He thought of ‘Duane’, equipped with his infra-red telescopic sights, tightened his grip on the tyre iron, glanced over his shoulder and felt a shiver run down his spine. For a second he considered giving Geoff a buzz, then thought: No, this is my play. I bought the risk – I see it through. I want – need – to see it through. If he’s there, Diaz is mine. I’m the one who wound him up, and now I have to cool him out. He switched off the phone to make sure it didn’t ring at an inopportune moment …

  Passing the house he walked further along, and three cars down there was a Mercedes, about five years old. He felt the bonnet – not particularly warm, nor was it cold. It seemed, under streetlight, to be wine-or maroon-coloured. A tiny red light winked from the dash. The registration tag said: BAD MAN. Some sense of humour. Barrett squatted and, using a ballpoint pen, let down the two offside tyres to the rims. Then he returned to the house.

  It was a run-down, stucco type of establishment, maybe a century old, with a poor excuse for a portico. Several dead pot plants sat on a ledge. There was a wire door – wide open – with a hole in it big enough to let an Alsatian through. For a full minute Barrett listened against the lighted window, the one with the crooked venetians, but heard nothing. Nor could he see in. The impression given was that the house was deserted, but this was clearly not the case. There was an off smell about this whole set-up. He crept down the narrow side of the house, passing three darkened windows. At the back there was another, smaller, window, of frosted glass – the bathroom. He listened again: still nothing. He slipped the tyre iron down his pants. Withdrawing the Sig and holding it alongside his leg, safety still on, he edged around the wall, into the back yard.

  It was a pit, a junkyard of old furniture, food cans, window frames, sheets of corrugated iron, plaster, bits and pieces of building materials. He brushed past a tree, and something bumped him on the forehead – a large lemon. There were no lights on here, and he had to watch his footing. A set of steps led to a timber deck with a steel railing, then a new, solid-looking wooden door. The back end of the house was a recent addition – there was the smell of new-cut timber and fresh paint. He tried the door handle – locked. Next to it there was a partly curtained window with a metal frame, which he peered through, cupping a hand around his right eye. Deep in the house somewhere there was a dull, reddish glimmer. He could just make out white goods in the kitchen, then an open doorway leading to a passage, from which the dull glimmer emanated. No shadow or movement appeared from within. The window would not open. He made his way around to the other side of the house, the driveway side. Here he was more exposed. Hugging the wall, he encountered another kitchen window, a wind-out type, also with a metal frame. No joy here either. So how the fuck was he going to get into the place without announcing himself? Maybe he should just kick the front door in and let the Sig Sauer do the talking. Back when he was a cop he wouldn’t have hesitated – but in those days he would have been part of an eight-or ten-man specialist team armed with riot guns, a warrant, a floor plan and an eighteen-pound key.

  Halfway along the house, past the new section, there was a sash window, old paint flaking and peeling on the frame. So far he had counted six, seven rooms. It was a high window, and he had to stand on his toes to see through it. Here was the source of the reddish glimmer. There was a lace curtain, fine enough for him to see through if he stretched to his full height on the tips of his toes, clutching the window ledge, the tyre iron resting on the ledge. And what he saw made him let go of the ledge and nearly fall backwards onto the concrete driveway. Mai Ling King, bound to a chair with brown duct or packing tape, gagged and blindfolded with it, the chair positioned in the middle of the room, directly below what looked like a red paper Chinese lantern around a light globe. She was facing the window, and she was stark naked. Barrett sucked in breath. Tightened his grip on the tyre iron.

  He needed something to stand on. Around the back again, he found a broken-backed chair, set it under the sash window. Stood on it, testing his weight, pushing the legs into the soil to get some stability. He tucked the Sig Sauer back in the waistband of his Levis, then he stood gingerly on the chair. Now he could see through the top half of the dirt and dead fly-encrusted window that it was unlocked – looked as if it had never been locked. He tried lifting the lower half, pushing upwards with his thumbs, but it was stuck fast. Using his Swiss army knife, he cut as deeply as he could around the window’s edges, slicing through the long-dried paint that bonded it to the frame. Then he tried lifting again. There was a fractional gain. All he needed was enough of a gap to use the tyre iron. He repeated the procedure with the knife, trying to loosen the window while making as little noise as possible, then pushed up again. Snap. Something gave, and now the window wobbled a little. His heart pumped, and his mouth was as dry as the paint he was trying to crack. Lifting again, straining every muscle until his chest hurt, his thumbs and hands hurting too, he felt some give – not enough, but encouragement. Then it went up another notch. Now there was a sliver of space at the bottom.

  With the tool wedged in place, he levered upwards, again and again, stopping occasionally to shake the window free of paint. His legs, trembling with effort, made the chair shift unsteadily. Snap – another breakthrough. Up went the window, little by little. He leaned on the lever, giving it everything, praying the chair would hold. Crack. Screech. The last resistance fell away; he could now fit his hand under the window, lean into it, and lift. Up it flew.

  He paused, caught his breath. Listened. To his own ears the noise he had made was enough to bring anyone in the place running. He folded and pocketed the knife, put the tyre iron on the ground. Withdrew the Sig. Then he climbed awkwardly through the opened window, scraping his chest on the ledge, brushing the lace curtain aside with his gun hand, holding the pistol out in front of him. First one foot, then the other, touched down. He was in. Strange – most of the floor was covered with clear plastic sheeting, as if someone planned to do some painting soon.

  Mai Ling had not moved. She was completely trussed in the tape, the roll still attached and lying on the floor next to her. Now he was torn: search the house first, or attend to her? The first was the wise option, but fraught with peril – he had no idea of the layout, or the location of light switches. But it had to be done. Passing Mai Ling he studied her for signs of life. There was the flutter of a pulse in her throat. She did not seem at all aware that someone had come in – maybe she had frozen, or passed out, in terror. Or maybe she was drugged. There were no wounds or marks on her body that he could see. He proceeded to the door, which was ajar, and went through into a hallway, silent as a ghost.

  In the carpeted hall he stood still, adjusting to the dark and waiting for sounds to come to him. Nothing. To his right there were two closed doors, the lighted bathroom, then the kitchen; to his left, two more rooms, one on either side of the hall. A triangular crack of light showed under the partly open door of the front room with the Venetian blind. He moved towards it, drawn by that acute triangle of light with a sense of dreadful anticipation. The hairs on his neck shivered. He passed the door, pressed himself against the wall, spread the fingers of his left hand and gently pushed the door open. Then, knees bent, he rushed inside, sweeping the pistol through a half-circle and back again.

  Empty.

  The room contained a large, un-made bed, a wardrobe and chest of drawers. The drawers were half-opened, garments spilling out. Clothes littered on the floor – a woman’s clothes. High-heeled shoes, too. The scent of
perfume and talcum powder in the air. Pantyhose draped over a chair. Necklaces hanging on a mirror.

  Next room – same thing. An all-female presence, but no-one home. Bathroom – empty. Big mirror bordered with bright, pearly bulbs, like the mirror in an actor’s dressing room. Hand basin cluttered with myriad nail polish bottles, lipsticks, lip gloss, mascara, blush, hair spray, fragrant soaps, creams, gels and other female toiletries. Used tissues, smeared with make-up. Packets of condoms. In all, five bedrooms, all occupied by women, all in disarray. An overpoweringly female scent pervaded the air and clung to the walls, like cat spray. He breathed out, lowered the gun, felt his muscles relax a little. Premises secured.

  He returned to Mai Ling. In the door, gun at his side, other hand reaching into his jeans pocket for the knife to cut her loose. What kind of a low bastard …

  ‘Come in and shut the fucking door, Pike,’ said Anthony Diaz. He was standing behind Mai Ling, having turned the chair around to face Barrett. In his left hand he held a gleaming knife, hard against her throat; in his right, the arm fully extended, a semi-automatic cannon aimed sideways at the middle of Barrett’s chest. ‘That’s it. Keep on coming, you dead fuck. Keep coming. Step inside, shut the door. Now place the gun on the floor and kick it over here. Go on.’ Seeing the flicker of hesitation in Barrett’s eyes, he pressed the flat of the blade even more firmly against the white skin of Mai Ling’s throat. ‘In case you’re wondering,’ he said, ‘this knife is so sharp you can see through it. If I decide to slice her, the blood spurt from the jugular will probably hit you right in the fucking face.’

  ‘Don’t hurt her,’ Barrett said. ‘Take it easy. I’m putting the gun down. Just watch that knife. Christ, look out – you’re cutting her, man.’

  ‘Am I?’ A droplet of deep crimson had burst upon the blade and slid across it. ‘Accidents do happen. Never mind. Come on – kick it over here. Then put your hands on your ugly fucking head.’

  Barrett obeyed. Slowly, buying time to think. He had the Swiss army knife in his pocket, but the blade was folded. He’d never be able to get it out, open and use it in time. May as well not have it – so forget the knife. He stared down the black hole of the cannon’s mouth.

  ‘What do you want, Diaz? What’s this all about?’

  Diaz came out from behind Mai Ling. He was wearing a white T-shirt with the face of Jimi Hendrix printed on it, a silver-studded belt and tight black jeans. ‘Once a cop, always a cop – always with the questions, always trying to take charge. Well, you’re out of business here, Pike. Out of your jurisdiction. Right-out-of-your-zone. You are about to be cashiered, drummed out, downsized. You are getting the chop. Now go down on your fucking knees – and keep those hands on your head, fingers tightly interlaced. Say some prayers, if you know any. Quick – you prick.’

  Barrett got down, stared at the plastic sheeting under him. Plastic sheeting …

  He was thinking about the plastic sheeting when, from out of nowhere, Diaz’s foot caught him under the sternum, just below the heart, and sent him spinning backwards, onto his back, the pain exploding in his midsection, his vision blurred, the breath gone from his lungs. The placement of the kick had been perfect, and the blow itself hard enough to kill him by stopping his heart cold. But he wasn’t dead – yet. Lying there, eyes filling with water, chest feeling as if a knife had been plunged into it, Barrett was thinking: is this it, at last? For half his life he had been thinking about his death, how it might come. Now, on the brink, a strange thing happened. In his mind he was back in the army, patrolling the jungle trails of Phuoc Tuy province, as they did most of the time during his tour. He could see it as vividly as if it were a film unrolling in his head. He thought a lot about death in Vietnam, yet he did not fear being killed as much as stepping on a landmine and having his legs and genitals blown off. That was a fate infinitely worse than death, and it happened every day, to someone. Barrett had resolved that if it happened to him he would kill himself rather than merely exist, a dickless cripple, growing old and bitter and bearded in a wheelchair. Even now, with the accrued wisdom of age, he still believed that to be the right course of action. He was not frightened of dying. He felt calm, almost relieved. The man with the gun was going to take him out. No matter.

  ‘As you can see,’ Diaz said, squatting over him, the cannon on his face, ‘I have prepared for your visit. This is brand new carpet – be damned if I’m going to fuck it up with all that shit inside your skull, Pike.’ His mouth opened in a wide, self-satisfied smile. Barrett blinked, trying to focus. All he could see was the dense network of tattoos on his tormentor’s throat, and the fine gold chains swinging above his face. ‘Knew you couldn’t resist rushing to the aid of a damsel in distress, Pike. Knew you couldn’t. You know, I forced her to make that fucking call. She didn’t want to, she’s hot for you, but I said, “You make that call pronto, or I slice you into sushi, baby doll.” And she did. By Christ, you took your time fucking around with that window, didn’t you? Should’ve left it open, I guess – but then you might have smelled a rat.’

  ‘You’re the fucking rat around here.’

  Diaz pressed the cannon against Barrett’s nostril, thumbed the hammer back. ‘Brave words. But remember, amigo, you haven’t got your fat, has-been second banana O’Mara to back you up now. You two guys, you’re a fucking joke. You should be in the senior citizens, playing fucking bingo and lawn bowls. That’s about your level.’ He eased the hammer down again, keeping the gun hard against Barrett’s nose. ‘Pretty good mates, huh?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said, pretty good mates, you and O’Mara. Right?’

  Barrett didn’t speak.

  ‘I bet you suck his cock. Don’t you?’

  Barrett closed his eyes. Diaz pushed the gun harder into the soft flesh of his nostril.

  ‘I said, I bet you suck his cock. Do you, Pike? Do you suck O’Mara’s schlong?’

  ‘… Yes.’

  ‘How often? Every day?’

  Barrett nodded.

  ‘Say it, you cunt. Say the whole thing, good and loud. Let’s see how cool you are in front of your girlfriend here.’

  ‘Uh … I suck O’Mara’s … ah, schlong … every day.’

  ‘And you love it, don’t you? Say you love it.’

  ‘… Yes, I … I love it.’

  ‘I bet you’d even suck mine, if I shoved it in your wordhole. Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘… Yes.’ Barrett was rubbing his midsection, trying to ease the pain.

  ‘Don’t worry, Pike. I’m not going to give you that pleasure. I’m careful where I dip my wick. You’re pathetic, you know that, my man? You are a fucking cock-sucking insect. You’re a roach. It’s gonna give me real buzz spreading your crap all over the floor. You think you’re such hot shit, don’t you? Don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah … hot shit.’ Still massaging his gut.

  ‘Okay, hot shit, what do you make, snooping around in people’s dirty washing? Sixty grand? Fucking change, Pike – chump change. I wipe my arse with that. I wipe my arse with fifty-buck bills, and flush ’em down the fucking can.’ At this point Barrett realised Diaz had been drinking, which explained why he was talking so much. He was certainly going to kill Barrett, but only after he’d had his say – savouring the moment was nearly as important to him as the deed itself. ‘So. Do you like my operation? Do you approve? Had a good snoop, didn’t you? Creeping around in your fucking brothel sneakers. Listen: I got a sweet deal going here, Pike. A dumb, flatfoot, old cunt like you couldn’t imagine. Six of the prettiest, raunchiest hornbags in captivity, and all under the one roof. You think Mai Ling’s something? Should see the others. I’ve got a green-eyed blonde with big mothers of tits, Asian, Eurasian, African, with lips that’ll swallow you whole and a muff like honeydew melon, a gorgeous Italian signorina with a pussy that fires golf balls and whistles ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’ at the same time. Not just ordinary hookers, Pike – they’re all class. They’re world-class escort girls. T
hey pick up Japanese industry leaders, gamblers, Olympic officials, politicians and rich tourists in the five-star hotels, in the casino, spend the night in their room for a couple of grand a pop. They fuck and suck dick all night, then crash here all day and pretty themselves up again. They do whatever the punter wants. The punter wants to be pissed on or chained to the bath and flogged with a fire hose reel, for two large he gets it. That’s seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year. Can you work out what that adds up to? I’ll save you the trouble – over three million per, in cash. Bye-bye tax man. You see? And when you have a business like that going, you don’t want two-bit shit-heads like you, Pike, fucking with it. See my point? See it?’

  ‘… I see your point.’

  ‘Good. Now tell me. Who’s your favourite philosopher?’

  ‘… What?’

  ‘Your favourite philosopher, Pike. You know what a philosopher is, don’t you?’