by Jack Lacey
As I neared to the last twenty yards, the big guy threw the manager to the ground, wiped his mouth slowly as if he’d just enjoyed a drink, then turned to face me, his machete raised in defiance. I calmly walked past the girl on the bike thinking how drugged up she must be not to feel the cold in her skimpy outfit then passed the freak with the petrol can hovering by the door again.
‘Best turn around and head back to your truck, mister,’ the main guy announced, puffing out his chest noticeably as I entered the diner.
‘Oh really,’ I said, reckoning he weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds and was relatively useful with his fists.
‘Really?’ he said again with increasing menace.
‘And when you boys have finished having your fun, you’re just going to torch the place and ruin an innocent man’s livelihood, are you?’
The guy stabbed the air with his machete and gave me his best death stare.
‘And what business is it of yours, Limey? You don’t want to be sticking your nose in where it’s not wanted, do you?’
‘Oh no?’ I said calmly.
‘Not if you want it to remain attached to that pretty face of yours,’ he declared, nodding deftly to his accomplices at his side.
I shook my head in disappointment and edged a little closer, until I was only a few feet away from the counter, then eyed him up and down like the piece of shit he was.
The biker who’d been rifling through the till, stopped and stared at the main guy with his sunken eyes, waiting to see what he would do first, while the other moron carried on stuffing his face like some lobotomized chimp.
‘So what is it to be?’ the big guy pressed.
‘I think you need to be more concerned about keeping your own face intact, numbskull,’ I said with a fake smile, preparing myself.
The biker clenched his jaw.
‘I think it’s you that’s gunna get a good pasting, boy,’ he spat, looking like he was about to launch himself over the hot plate towards me.
I glanced to my left. The pyromaniac had now pulled out a vicious-looking knife and was standing next to the girl at the door, who under the fluorescent lights, looked like some sort of demented vampire. I glanced back at the counter. The other two hadn’t moved as if unsure of what to do. I knew I had to think fast, or get swamped by all of them if they decided to charge as one.
The machete guy turned as if to make his way out through the swing doors. Quickly, I pulled out the rope from the back of my belt and in one deft move launched its coiled loop over the counter at him.
Bingo. The rope fell perfectly over his head and lay around his neck. He froze for a second, surprised at the sudden impediment, then more so when I tugged it hard, tightening the noose.
He spun around in shock looking bewildered, then as his hands went to free the rope, I yanked it violently, so that he came hurtling out over the hot plate head first and thumped down onto the restaurant floor amongst a sea of broken crockery before me.
For a moment everyone froze as their associate writhed around on the floor, before the pyromaniac barged through the door knife outstretched, like he was about to offer it to me.
I put my foot on the main guy’s throat and tightened the noose, letting them know who was boss, then looked up at the knife guy as he inched a little closer.
‘Back off, fatso, unless you want me to remove your friend’s fucking head. I’m serious. I do this sort of shit in my sleep.’
The biker held back. The other two behind the counter still hadn’t moved as if they’d soiled themselves.
‘Let my man go or I’ll kill ya,’ the girl snarled, panic filling her glassy eyes.
‘Is that so,’ I said tugging the rope hard again, so that the biker’s eyes bulged out of his now purple face.
‘Just let him go!’ she snapped again, tears gathering in their ducts.
‘Let me tell you something,’ I said scanning the group intently. ‘You all just get back on your crappy little bikes and head back to the dark hell hole where you sprang from and I won’t hurt him. Simple as that. Fuck with me just one more time though, and I’ll take both his ears off, here and now. You want that?’
I stooped down and picked up the weapon that had thankfully followed the biker over the counter.
‘Now you’re going to be a good boy and do what I say, aren’t you, Blackie,’ I said in a whisper, noticing the name stamped on the breast pocket of his denim waistcoat.
‘You’re a dead man, fucker,’ he gurgled between bloodied teeth.
I didn’t like what I was hearing and lowered the blade to his throat, paring the skin open a little so that he knew I was serious.
‘I’ll fucking do it, Blackie, if you push me too far. I’ll fucking do it…’ I lied.
‘He’s bluffing,’ the pyro guy announced edging closer again, his Bowie knife glinting under the flickering lights.
The girl pulled out a blade of her own suddenly, summoning up some more courage to join her friend. She was probably the most dangerous of them all I thought. Those eyes of hers were devoid of soul...
‘You haven’t got the balls, mister,’ she spat, eyeing me like I was a chunk of meat ready to be dissected.
The two bikers behind the counter sprung into life suddenly, smashing their bottles on the counter as if they’d finally decided that I was bluffing too, then made for the door. I was going to have to take the guy’s ear off to prove that I wasn’t. It was going to get messy after all...
I placed the machete against the side of the biker’s head then looked up in astonishment as the Somalian rose up from behind the counter breaking the stand-off, one hand raised to his bloodied face, the other waving a Smith and Wesson that he’d obviously had stashed somewhere and had managed to retrieve.
‘You all go now, or I, I, shoot you up,’ he shouted in broken English.
‘Fuck you!’ the girl said dismissively.
The Somalian cocked the hammer and pointed the revolver in her direction. Everyone froze again.
‘Do it!’ the manager shouted again, blood running down his neck in a steady stream soaking the collar of his shirt a rich claret.
The toxic hyenas backed off. I let go of the rope so Blackie could haul himself up and stagger over to the door, coughing.
‘Come on, let’s go,’ he croaked, clutching his throat. ‘We’ll come back to finish our business another time...’
The Somalian pointed the revolver at each of them in turn as they scrambled out. Seconds later they’d mounted their bikes and had started them up so that their engines chugged loudly, eager for more throttle.
Finally, in a plume of grit and snow they sped off in a roar, whooping and cursing as they went until they reached the highway and rode out of sight. I lowered the machete and breathed a sigh of relief, then looked over at the Somalian who was now holding a blood-soaked towel to his battered face.
‘You okay?’ I said clocking his injuries, ‘or do you need taking to hospital?’
‘I’m okay,’ he murmured, ‘just a graze.’
‘You’ve got more balls than the lot of them put together, brother. You sure you’re alright?’
‘Yes, I think so...Can I get you something to eat or drink?’
I laughed at the absurdity of the question.
‘No, all I need is some bloody sleep. You close up and get yourself home now before those freaks come back, okay?’
He nodded lamely. I turned and strolled back to the truck, hoping that that would be the end to the evening’s entertainment, that the bikers wouldn’t return with more of their friends later to even the score. There was a lot of footwork to do in the morning too, and if Olivia had gone on some romantic road trip with Ethan, which it looked like she may have, she could be anywhere in the damned States right now. Every lost hour was crucial…
I turned again as I neared the rig, then watched as the restaurant guy tried to bring the shutters down over the steamed-up windows of the diner with his one free hand. The Somalian was
struggling, that much was clear. I placed my hand on the icy handle of the truck, clicked it open then thought better of it. The guy probably needed stitches. And he certainly wasn’t in a fit enough state to drive home, let alone close up the joint.
I cursed, then headed back in double-time as a flurry of snow started to come down again. I was going to have to drive him to the nearest hospital or he was going to bleed to death in the damned parking lot.
I berated myself for having taken the job on, then for having developed a conscience. It was going to be another long long night again, then another long day tomorrow, and I was going to be jet-lagged, and pretty damned irritable as a result.
I placed a hand on the Somalian’s shoulder as he fumbled with some keys to lock the doors then eyed his head wound as he lowered the towel. The cut on his head looked deep. The one above his eye like it needed stitches.
‘Come on, I’ll take you to the nearest hospital. Just tell me where I need to go, okay?’
He offered a defiant smile then fainted suddenly. I grabbed him instinctively to stop him falling to the ground then held him vertical until his eyelids had fluttered open again.
‘Thanks,’ he said groggily. ‘The name’s Moses.’
‘No worries. I’m Blake...’ I said, cursing the blood smears he’d just left over my favourite jacket. ‘We’ll take your car if you have one...’
*
When I woke up, there was a hand on my shoulder shaking me gently. It was Moses. His head was bandaged heavily and his arm was in a sling, but apart from that he looked better.
‘How long have we been in here?’
‘Three and a half hours.’ He cracked a toothy smile. ‘You’ve been asleep all this time.’
I looked at the clock in the waiting room. It was nearly eight o’clock in the morning. I didn’t feel too bad surprisingly, but I wasn’t filled with the joys of spring either. My back felt like a piece of cardboard.
‘I thought our hospitals were slow...’
He looked at me quizzically.
‘You know any good places to get a coffee around here, Moses?’
‘Sure,’ he said extending a hand to pull me up.
‘Good. You can buy me a fresh one then drop me off at the Longfellow Gallery on Second Avenue South, just west of the Thirty-Five. Do you know where that is?’
‘I think so. It’s just a short drive across town.’
I followed the Somalian out to the car lot where we’d parked his battered Toyota up in the early hours. Give it a few hours, some strong espresso and freshen up in the toilets I thought, I would be good to go again.
I needed to meet this friend of Henry’s too. Walter Finch. He’d organized the work placement for Olivia and was director of the gallery there. It was a decent enough place to start the search, and I hoped somewhat optimistically, that he might have had some fresh information on the girl since the last time he’d spoken to Henry.
We arrived back at the white saloon and both stood there in muted horror. Some asshole had clamped the car while we were inside getting treatment. Perfect timing I thought, shaking my head in disbelief, as Moses scratched his bandaged head. I’d been stuffed into a petrol tank, fought off a gang of bikers, spent the night in a hospital waiting room and now this...I wondered what else was in store if I continued with the job.
‘You wait here,’ I said, feeling frustrated.
‘Where you going?’ Moses called out sheepishly.
‘To find some implements that will unpick that damned lock,’ I said, walking back to the hospital’s main entrance as the snow started coming down heavier again, hoping against hope, that sooner rather than later, everything was going to start getting that little bit easier, and that that circling spider had completely lost interest...
Chapter Eight
‘watched’
It took a half hour to free the car, then another to get a decent coffee and freshen up. When we finally pulled up outside the Longfellow Gallery, the place was already open much to my relief, leaving me the best part of the day afterwards to follow any subsequent leads that I managed to pick up there.
I shook Moses’s hand and watched him drive off into the distance slowly, then turned my attentions to the impressive angular building before me, its glazed frontage reflecting the tangerine glow of the rising Minnesotan sun.
I walked up the massive marble steps one by one feeling weary, then passed through revolving doors into a huge high-ceilinged lobby filled with an array of Romanesque statues, contemporary sculptures and bird-like mobiles, suspended like futuristic pterodactyls in the air.
I scanned my surroundings getting my bearings like some brainless tourist then continued to the reception area where a pensive looking girl in a pencil skirt and even tighter smile greeted me from behind the desk.
‘I’m looking for the curator or the director here, or whatever you call him…Walter Finch?’
‘Is he expecting you, sir?’ the assistant said robotically, looking down at some administrative book as if she were looking for a name.
‘Walter is a friend of a friend of mine back in England. Hopefully he’ll be aware that I’m coming,’ I said brightly, trying to gain more of her attention.
She tweaked a perfunctory smile, turned and pressed a button on her phone. I sighed and waited for Walter to come online, beginning to feel annoyed at her prickliness.
‘Yea…’ I could hear a laconic voice answer on the other end of the phone.
‘There is a mister...’
‘Blake,’ I said alternating from heel to toe, anxious to get on with the task at hand.
‘A Mr Blake to see you, sir, from England. Are you expecting him?’ she said, glancing up stern-faced.
‘Who?’ Finch said.
‘There’s a man here, who says he...’
I leant over the desk at the limit of my patience and pressed the speaker button so that he could hear me.
‘It’s the guy from England, trying to find Olivia. Henry hopefully told you I was coming over, or someone did. We need to talk...’
‘Err right, okay...come on up,’ he said, sounding surprised.
I left the receptionist to her look of disgust then wandered up the three winding flights of chrome and glass steps to the offices, where I quickly found a door with Finch’s name on it. I knocked once and entered, then pulled up a fancy purple chair opposite and took him in.
The guy before me was tall, bald and bespectacled and looked seriously academic, the sort that drove a practical, no-thrills car and had a practical no-thrills wife. He extended a limp hand and smiled politely, his features tinged with a tangible anxiety. I reciprocated the smile and tried to make it look genuine.
‘Nice to make your acquaintance, Mr Blake. Henry did ring to say that someone else was going to make an appearance, but I plain forgot. I’m sorry. It’s just a little hectic around here at the moment as we’re changing exhibitions, and it does tend to be all consuming. How can I help?’ he said forcing another uncomfortable smile.
I looked him straight in the eye.
‘Well, have you had any contact?’
‘From Olivia?’
‘Yes...’ I said trying to suppress my air of exasperation.
‘No, not since she vanished five or six weeks ago, along with Ethan.’
‘And, who is this boy?’ I asked, playing ignorant so that I could get Walter’s personal take on the situation.
‘He’s my nephew I’m ashamed to say. He used to work in the cafe downstairs. They were here around the same time. She got involved with him romantically I believe, then disappeared together a month or so later.’
‘Do you have his address?’
‘Errr...maybe...’
He swivelled around in his chair and tapped some keys on his computer. A few seconds later a printer whirred somewhere in the corner.
‘And what about your sister? Have you spoken to her recently?’ I pressed, feeling like I was wading through mud. ‘Has she had any contact with
either of them? Olivia was staying at her place, right?’
‘I spoke to Chrissie around two or three weeks ago. She said that she hadn’t heard from the girl, and would call if there was any news.’
‘Can I give her a ring?’
‘Sure. You can go around to her house if you like too. It’s just five minutes’ drive away over in Cooper.’
I felt like Finch was keen to get me out of his office, that I unsettled him somehow. Maybe I looked too much like his nephew and that ‘sort’. Maybe he was threatened by it. After all, he was that beige-sort-of-guy, the safe sort who probably liked to have his life organized into neat little boxes, though the abstract painting behind him made me think that he had another side. The image appeared to resemble some frantic sexual liaison, that didn’t appear wholly consensual…
Finch got up and walked over to the printer, pulled out the resulting page and scribbled some addresses and numbers on it.
‘Is there anything else?’ he said, his hand shaking as he handed it over.
‘Yea, can you tell me how Olivia was just before she left? Did she look angry, distressed, worried about anything?’
‘No, in truth, the reverse really. She was enjoying her time here and was quite enthusiastic until she started hanging out with Ethan and his cronies. In fact, he was a bad distraction all round in my eyes I’m ashamed to say. You know, time-keeping, little errands forgotten about. I was just about to have a word with her when they both disappeared.’
‘And what about Ethan? What do you know about his habits?’
Walter drew a sharp breath and looked at me over his glasses.
‘He hangs out with the gutter-punk crowd who live over in Seward. You know, those eco-hippy types that want something for nothing, yet keep telling us how to live our lives. I did him a favour getting the café job because he’s family, not that he ever appreciated it...’
‘Right.’
Walter had a problem with kids who rebelled, like he hadn’t probably. His attitude surprised me for someone of an artistic background, but then again life was jam-packed with those sort of ironies.