by Ben Sanders
Perry didn’t answer.
Tol said, ‘You tell Marie?’
Perry shook his head. ‘Christ, no. Just said I was coming here.’
Tol said, ‘We’re going to have to go to the club and tell them.’
Perry didn’t answer.
Tol watched the door, eyes flicking back and forth, watching some play in his head. Moves and countermoves. He swore under his breath, real venom in it, and said, ‘If he’s got your phone, someone might try to reach you, and if they get him instead, it’s all going to hit the fan.’
Perry waited.
Tol looking at the floor now, about to give him bad news. He brought his other boot up, propped it on the hoop of the stool. He said, ‘We have to tell them. Because sooner or later they’re going to call your phone. And then it won’t just be you they come after, it’ll be me as well.’
SEVEN
Ludo Coltrane
Goddamned New Mexico job had hooked him on hard liquor. It must have been the stress: beer would normally do him, but the last few days he’d needed the good stuff. He raised a hand and caught Danny’s eye, shouted for vodka, neat. The place was packed, drunks the whole length of the bar, but nobody gave him trouble when he shouldered through. He got a kick out of these guys with their slick hair and their attitude, quick to look away if he shoved them aside. He liked that don’t-mess-with-Ludo vibe. Being six-four and two-forty helped.
Danny poured him the drink, but it didn’t look like much, just two fingers at the bottom of a glass. He’d kill that in one hit and then be back for another, and that’s when you have a problem.
He said, ‘Actually, give me some ice as well, fill it out a bit.’ Shouting over the bass.
Danny loaded him up and slid him the glass. Ludo checked his watch. 1:24 A.M. It only had to last a few minutes. He pushed through the crowd and headed to the back room. Everyone was bathed pink: they’d had these neon strip lights put up around the ceiling, supposed to be red, but they got the tone wrong, made the place look like a fag hangout. He’d have to fix them.
He took a stool by the stage, watched Raylene doing her thing with the pole. Her hips were having a good time, but the rest of her wasn’t. He could tell from her dead eyes she was miles away, blank and bored. Like a puppet dancing there, someone upstairs working the strings.
He checked his watch again: 1:25. By the time he’d driven around, it’d work out perfect. Raylene had her top off now, twirling it on her finger as she spun around the pole, leaning out off one arm. There were a few guys along the stage, but no one was really digging it. He couldn’t see any tips coming out. Two guys straight opposite were talking about something important, hunched up with their heads together, almost touching. Must have been real good if nudity didn’t grab them.
At 1:29 he knocked back the last trickle, chewed an ice cube as he walked through the heaving front room and then outside onto Roosevelt Ave. A 7 train was just screaming through on the rail overpass, the dollar store across the street lit up with neon, 99C in bright yellow behind the bars on the front window, night traffic going back and forth, reflecting the bar lights.
Mick was outside, lighting a cigarette. He glanced up over cupped hands.
Ludo said, ‘I’ll be back in thirty minutes. Call me if you have any trouble.’
Mick blew smoke and saluted as Ludo walked away across Roosevelt. He headed up Sixty-fourth to where he’d left the Caprice and waited two car lengths back, listening. All he could hear was domestic stuff from the apartments, people up late arguing. A light on in a third-floor window, shadows darting past the blind.
He unlocked the Caprice and got in and drove north.
He’d been night manager at the club ten years now, scored the job just after he moved here. He’d started out in Albuquerque, probably would’ve stayed there, too, if he hadn’t killed a pot dealer. He forgot the guy’s name now, but the way it happened, Ludo bought some herb that was laced with something vicious, smoked it, and then woke up in a pool of his own vomit. And given he’d only wanted the plant and no extras, he went back and killed the guy. Shot him in the head, stole ten grand and a half-pound of grass, and that would’ve been that, except the guy’s wife was in the house, and she saw him do it. She told him herself she was a witness, left a message on his answering machine, teary and hysterical. It was a tough call whether to split right then or go back and kill her, too.
He split.
He drove flat out for New York and made it in two days, two fourteen-hour legs. His mother lived there, and he hadn’t seen her in fifteen years, since his parents separated. Twenty-eight hours driving, his story was pretty smooth: the killing was self-defence, but the cops think it’s premeditated. Mom, you’ve gotta help me.
She did.
She knew a guy who knew a guy, who ran an unofficial customs and immigration service. It was a good scheme: he worked in admin at a care home for the mentally disabled. For a fee, he’d provide patient details for the purpose of a passport application. The best available match was a French patient called Jean Ludeau Collet. Jean had fetal alcohol syndrome, and was mute and wheelchair-bound. He was never going to travel, and their dates of birth were only two years apart. His mother paid the thousand-dollar fee, and two months later he had clean, legit ID in a new name, with no criminal record. He ditched the froggy parts and started calling himself Ludo Coltrane. It fit him perfect. Even his mother called him Ludo.
He drove up Sixty-fourth and then cut over to Sixty-third, followed it back south to Trimble and parked. The Caprice was an ’88 model, black, buffed to a crude-oil gleam, still sounding nice under the hood. He let it run a few seconds and then shut the engine. Across the street on his left were the backs of some brick factory units, and on his right behind a low fence was a twenty-foot drop to the train tracks in their concrete gully.
He got out and walked around to the trunk and unlocked it, stepped aside to let the street light in. The Chinese guy was lying in there just as he’d left him, hands taped behind his back, knees pulled to his stomach. He had blood smeared around his mouth like clown makeup, eyes swollen shut, just slits in the purple mess.
Ludo said, ‘Well done. That’s what three hours in the trunk of a car feels like.’
He leaned down and grabbed the guy by the tie and pulled him out and dumped him on the little grass verge beside the fence, stepped back and closed the lid gently.
He said, ‘Look. I know we owe money. Mr Vine knows we owe money. But showing up asking for it won’t make it come faster.’
The guy said, ‘Mmm,’ behind the tape.
Ludo said, ‘You got a business issue, pick up the phone, show some courtesy, maybe we can talk it through like gentlemen. But if you show up at the club making a scene, then I gotta take a different approach.’
The guy didn’t make a sound.
Ludo said, ‘Pass it up the line to your people, whoever’s in charge: if you send anyone else over here, you won’t be getting them back. Have a nice night.’
He took the switchblade from his pocket and cut the tape from the guy’s wrists and mouth. The guy spat blood and said, ‘You got till midnight tomorrow, motherfucker.’
Their dustup had mashed his speech: ‘Ugah tir mi’nigh, mu’fuggah.’
Ludo didn’t answer. He got back into the Caprice and drove away, made a point of not looking in his mirror.
When he reached the club Mick was still outside, lighting up another smoke. He leaked fumes out his nose and said, ‘Tol and Perry are coming by.’
Perry
They went in Tol’s Subaru and drove a roundabout route, west through Williamsburg, a real trendy area now. Boutique coffee shops everywhere, a bar every second block, guys outside with little hats on tilted just so, trousers rolled up so you could see they didn’t wear socks. He remembered ten, fifteen years ago, you didn’t mess about when you came through here, just walked fast and kept your eyes on your feet until you were clear. The odd place still had grilles on its windows, but it was all
part of the character now. Graffiti just gave it some colour in its cheeks.
Tol seemed pissed off and tense, driving one-handed, staring at the road down his locked arm. Perry was just flat-out worried, hindsight doing its thing: you shouldn’t have talked to Henry. You shouldn’t have gone up there. You could be home in bed. This parallel reality, where he made no mistakes.
They came in along Roosevelt under the tracks, the stores in their night-lights lit up like slot machines, like something out of Vegas. Mick was outside, just finishing off a cigarette, stamping it out as Tol turned into Sixty-fourth. Ludo’s car was parked there in its usual place, and Tol swung in front and shut off the engine.
Perry opened his door, couldn’t quite get out. He could hear someone crying, and a dull bass rhythm from the bar behind them.
Tol said, ‘All right, let’s just do it. And leave your gun in the car. No, actually.’ He held out a hand. ‘Give it here.’
‘Oh Christ, come on.’
Tol didn’t budge.
Perry sighed and said, ‘Chrissake,’ and passed it to him. Tol swung out the cylinder and dumped the shells in his palm, reached down and dropped them under his seat.
‘Yeah, that’s going to be useful, isn’t it?’
Tol said, ‘That’s the idea.’ He handed back the empty pistol and got out and slammed his door.
Perry pocketed the gun, but no doubt Mick would search him, and then it would be hard work getting it back, even if it was empty. He could hear the argument: why’d you even bring it? Wasn’t this a good-faith meeting? That sort of thing. He hid the pistol under the seat, and then got out and followed Tol back down to Roosevelt. Tol had his jacket shrugged high to keep the collar round his ears, doing his big walk as he crossed the street. Trying to look like business even though he was probably worried.
Mick was leaning back against the wall, playing with his lighter, probably trying to look tough as well. It works when you’re six-five and bald.
He said to Tol, ‘He’s in back. I gotta pat you down before you go in.’
They didn’t object. They made starfish poses and Mick frisked them, and then held the door.
The front room was head-splitting: the bass cranked so high Perry felt it in his chest, the dance floor this mass of raised arms, people leaping like some zoo riot. Laser light going everywhere, like it wasn’t fun until you were deaf and blind.
Through a door into the back half of the building, and it got a little seedier: Raylene working the pole, a few guys dotted around the perimeter, leaning forward on folded arms. Ludo was seated at the far end, facing them as they came in. He grinned when he saw them. Contrast of that big white smile with his dark skin, you’d think he was a real charmer.
He stood up and shook Tol’s hand, leaned a little further and took Perry’s as well. He liked to hang on a little too long, remind you who’s boss.
He shouted, ‘Gentlemen. This is nice.’
Perry figured the guy must spend a lot of time on the bench press. He was about six-four, six-five, maybe two-fifty, liked his T-shirts on the small side.
Tol wasn’t big, only five-eight, five-nine, but he didn’t have trouble looking people in the eye. He stepped close so Ludo would hear him and said, ‘We got a problem.’
Which was part of their planned dialogue, no small talk, but the downside was it dropped Perry right in it: Ludo turned and looked at him like any sort of mishap must be his doing.
No point drawing it out now they’d admitted an issue, so Perry said, ‘I saw Marshall Grade tonight.’
Ludo looked at him a second, expressionless, like the news took a moment to reach the right place. Then he sat down, oddly serene with his back to the stage, hands neatly in his lap and his ankle across the other knee. Behind him, someone else had joined Raylene on stage, the first garments coming off, an eager old guy in a ball cap brandishing cash.
Ludo said, ‘Siddown.’
They pulled up stools and got in close.
Ludo said, ‘All right.’ He made a beckoning motion with one finger, his chin on his chest. ‘Let’s hear it.’
Perry took a good breath, wanting to get it in one try. He found Ludo hard to look at, the man way too calm. He ended up talking to the guy’s shoe, the one up on his knee. They were like desert boots but with fat padding, tan-coloured, laces halfway up his leg.
When he was done listening, Ludo grinned and said, ‘Well, shit. That was a fuckup, wasn’t it?’
Neither of them answered. Ludo stood up and stepped between them. ‘Wait here. I’ll be back soon.’
Ludo
He closed the office door to shut out the music, sat down on the edge of the desk, and called Dexter.
The old boy took his time with the pickup. Ten or twelve rings and he said, ‘Uh-huh?’ Late-night drowsy.
‘Yeah, Mr. Vine. It’s me.’ Looking at his Playboy calendar on the wall as he talked.
Dexter said, ‘Who’d they send?’
‘I don’t know, he was Chinese. They all look the same.’
‘So how’d it go?’
‘Fine. They sent a guy down to remind me you owe five mil by tomorrow.’
‘I don’t need reminding.’
Ludo said, ‘That’s what I told him.’
‘And what’d he say?’
‘He said they were worried you’re not going to honour the loan, in which case there’d be consequences.’ He swapped the phone to the other ear, giving himself a moment so he’d sound professional. ‘And I didn’t think that was very polite of them to be extending threats, so I put him in the back of the car a while to learn some manners.’
Dexter said, ‘Not going to hold them back when they realise I can’t pay.’
‘Make them pause, though. No one’s going to be thinking Dexter’s people are soft.’
‘Mmm.’
Ludo said, ‘Tol and Perry came by.’
Dexter didn’t answer, so Ludo pushed on with the story, relayed what Perry had told him.
When he finished, Dexter said, ‘Fucker.’ Drawing it out, almost a hiss. He said, ‘He’s in New York?’
‘According to Perry.’
Dexter said, ‘Shit. Shiiiiiit. And they didn’t get him?’
Ludo didn’t answer. Then he said, ‘Should I bring them over?’
‘Yeah, bring them around. I’ll figure out what we’re going to do.’
Perry
He ran his hands through his hair and let his breath out, the bass at manic pace, winding up his fears: maybe Ludo and Mick would take them for a drive. He could picture Ludo’s grin. Let’s check out that river. I’ll bring my gun. Something like that.
Tol said, ‘Chill out.’
Perry glanced at him. He didn’t look too relaxed, elbow up on the stage, playing with an eyebrow. Tol was younger, but he’d always had the big-brother role. He was good at backup. Their mother always said she’d named him after an FBI man she saw on TV, Clyde Tolson. Tol got a kick out of that when he was young, looking after Perry as if he owed it to Clyde, but he didn’t seem to feel that way now. He didn’t look confident.
Perry said, ‘We’ve walked in here, now he can do whatever he wants.’
‘Just chill.’
One of those easier-said-than-done things. His palms were clamming up. He wiped them through his hair.
‘I’m sorry, Tol. I fucked up.’
‘Shut up. Just shut up, and chill out.’
They waited two or three minutes, and then Ludo came back over, wearing a jacket now, unzipped over his T-shirt. He said, ‘Dexter wants to see you. The both of you.’
Tol looked up and said, ‘What for? It’s like, two in the morning.’
Ludo said, ‘You’re big kids. You’ll cope.’
He helped Perry to his feet by his collar. Perry’s legs didn’t have to do much.
Tol said, ‘Ludo, relax.’
Ludo ignored him, watched the dancers for a moment, the new girl crouching down, someone slipping her a tip. His attention drifted back to
Tol and he said, ‘I am relaxed. But I won’t be if you don’t move along.’
Tol didn’t answer, just raised his hands and stepped away. They threaded single file out through the crowd: Tol, and then Perry, and then Ludo bringing up the rear. A real grim quiet in the cold when they stepped out to the street, the noise from inside seeming very distant now.
Mick had his hands in his pockets, kicking at one of his dead butts. Ludo said, ‘We’re heading out. Help Danny lock up if I’m not back.’
They walked up Sixty-fourth. The fight was still in full swing, shouts and banging, things being thrown around. Ludo pulled his keys and unlocked the Caprice, opened the back door.
He gestured at Perry. ‘In.’
Perry just stood there, the black car and the black interior bringing back his gun-and-river fear. The pictures awful vivid—blood in the water, corpses floating away. He said, ‘We don’t need to go anywhere.’
‘Yeah we do.’ Ludo nodded at the open door. ‘Let’s go.’
He reached around and started to shove Perry inside, a straight-arm against his shoulder, and that’s when Tol moved past him to the Subaru, popped the trunk lid with a cool hiss, and brought out his AR-15 assault rifle.
He seemed calmer now, with the gun up at his shoulder. He said, ‘I don’t think we need to go anywhere.’
Ludo laughed, still hanging on to Perry. ‘What? You’re going to unleash that thing out here? Good luck. Mick’s just around the corner, or are you going to shoot him as well?’
He pushed Perry into the car, a decent shove, slammed the door on him. Tol standing there with the gun raised, not doing anything. Ludo stepped up to him, keeping it slow, three easy paces. Almost touching distance. He said, ‘Train’s leaving, Tol. You’re not going to be any use to him if you stay here.’
Perry tried the door, but of course the goddamned child locks were on. He slid across to the far side, ducked down to see Tol through the front window. He still had the gun raised, aimed on Ludo.
Ludo kept his eyes on him and walked backward around the hood and got in the driver’s seat, left his door open so he could talk. He put the key in the ignition and started the engine, a patient, throaty tone, gasoline odour wafting inside.