by Rob Ashman
The traffic was light and he made good time. The miles flew by and in under two hours he hung a right and hit the CA-111 travelling south. The road was slower, with trucks of every description trundling their way to the border. After a while he came to the intersection with the CA-98, turned left and drove parallel to the state line. Eight miles further on Lucas saw the sign saying Bonds Corner.
He swung the nose of the rental car off the road and onto the makeshift hard-core parking lot. He killed the engine. Cassandra’s Café was a thirty-foot trailer set back from the road in a deserted dustbowl. Lucas knew he was in the right place because the name was painted in four-foot-high red letters across the side, he couldn’t miss it. He pulled the car around the back and got out. There were arc lamps poking out of the roof, leaving the trailer sitting in its own oasis of light, while outside the hard-core area the rest of the landscape was pitch black. But no amount of blinding white lamps could disguise the fact that it was a shit-hole.
Lucas walked up the three steps to the wrought-iron security gate and yanked it open. It swung towards him and he pushed against the screen door.
The inside was clean and airy with a long counter running down the one side with a line of red leather bar stools stacked against it. On the opposite side were six booth seats, also decked out in red leather, each one set against a window. The place was completely at odds with the exterior decor.
Lucas strode in and slid into a booth facing the door. Two men sat at the counter. One was a road-worn trucker with an empty plate in front of him and a mug of coffee big enough to drown a small horse. The second was an older man, a biker, with expensive leathers and a glossy helmet. He was reading a local paper, sipping iced water.
Lucas stared out at the blackness.
A middle-aged woman ambled over to him wearing a blue dress and a white apron.
‘What would you like to drink, sweetie?’
Lucas looked up. She had a mop of tightly permed brown hair and wore half-moon glasses perched on the end of her nose. She smiled but the look on her face said ‘It’s late, I’m tired’. Her name badge said Marge, she didn’t look like a Cassandra.
‘I’m ready to order,’ Lucas said.
‘Okay, sweetie, what’ll it be?’
‘I’ll have waffles with French toast and a side order of bacon please.’
The woman stared at him over the rim of her glasses.
‘You know we have a dinner menu, right?’
‘Yes, that’s fine thanks.’
‘You haven’t looked at the menu. Shall I give you a couple of extra minutes, sweetie.’
‘No, no, I’m fine. Waffles, French toast and bacon please.’
The trucker stopped drinking his bath of coffee and snorted.
‘Okay, sweetie, anything to drink with that?’
‘Regular coffee please.’
The trucker looked over, shook his head and snorted again. Lucas imagined that in the world of truckers, real men didn’t drink regular, they drank frigging enormous.
Marge went behind the counter and spoke to the man working in the kitchen. Lucas could make out snippets of the conversation.
‘Well, I don’t know, Earl, maybe he can’t tell the difference between nine twenty at night and nine twenty in the morning.’ Marge was defending his waffle order.
Lucas gazed at his reflection in the window and kept glancing over to the door. He checked his watch and played with the packets of sugar in the bowl. He pulled out his car keys and placed them on the table.
The biker guy jumped down from his stool and picked up his helmet. ‘Cheerio now,’ he said in a British accent.
Maybe a tourist but more likely an ex-pat, Lucas thought. He watched as the screen door clanked shut, followed minutes later by a roar as a big Honda motorbike with British plates chugged across the car park. The guy checked both ways and blasted off into the night.
Lucas was still mulling over the ‘he must have been an ex-pat’ deduction, when Marge appeared beside him.
‘Coffee, sweetie.’
She placed the steaming mug in front of him. It was very different from the sludge he was used to drinking in the worst café in Florida. It was excellent coffee, strong and bitter.
The screen door opened again and a short man walked in carrying a black Puma sports bag. He was not old, but not young either. However, he was old enough to know you don’t go out dressed like that.
His jeans were torn at the knees and he wore a pair of greasy work boots. His tatty denim jacket was threadbare and his elbows stuck through holes in the sleeves. His hair was long and lank, and he didn’t look like he owned a comb or a razor. This guy didn’t just need a bath, he needed a trip through a car wash.
Marge clocked him with a disapproving glance, the expression on her face now saying ‘dirty hobo’. He shuffled in and took up a place at the counter across the way from Lucas. He dumped the bag at his feet and eased himself onto the stool. The truck driver didn’t flinch, he was obviously more comfortable with the hobo than he was with Lucas.
The food arrived. Marge arranged the plates in front of Lucas.
‘Need a refill, sweetie?’
‘No thanks, I’m fine.’
‘Enjoy your food.’
Marge went back behind the counter to serve the hobo.
‘Enjoy your breakfast more like.’ The truck driver sank the last of his enormous coffee and threw ten bucks onto the counter. He scowled at Lucas as he left.
Lucas tucked into the waffles, they were light and fluffy, really good. Or they would have been at seven thirty in the morning. But at half past nine at night they were a proving a struggle. Lucas persevered, pretending to enjoy his sugary dinner.
The hobo ordered coffee. Marge was much less chatty and didn’t once call him sweetie.
Lucas shovelled slabs of waffle into his mouth and crunched on the bacon. This was a seriously tasty breakfast.
The hobo drained his coffee, jammed his hand in his pocket and spilled a bunch of change onto the bar. He dropped from the stool, turned and stood directly in front of Lucas. He moved in close and Lucas could smell engine oil.
‘You got a light, buddy?’ he said taking a pack out of his pocket.
‘No, sorry, I don’t smoke.’
Lucas noticed the hobo’s hands were soft and clean, his nails neatly trimmed. He shot an unlit cigarette in his mouth and walked away. Lucas watched him leave and the trailer door slammed behind him.
He looked down. His keys were gone.
Lucas continued to munch his way through the food and finished off his coffee. His belly told him it was time to stop. He looked at his plate, there was more than half of it left.
Marge came over.
‘You want a top-up, sweetie,’ she said holding a pot of freshly brewed coffee.
‘No thanks, that was great. Can I have the check, please.’
‘You didn’t like it, sweetie?’ Marge eyed his plate, like a mother eyeing the unfinished plate of her wilful child.
Lucas felt compelled to respond. ‘It was real tasty, but I can’t finish it, can I have it in a box to go?’
‘I suppose so, sweetie.’
Lucas could hear the latest exchange between Marge and Earl.
‘Well, I don’t know, Earl, maybe he’ll eat the rest for breakfast. I mean breakfast for real, not ….’
Lucas was eager to leave. He saw the tail-lights of a beaten-up Ford on the hard-core. The front wheels bumped onto the road and sped away.
Marge showed up with a Styrofoam box and the check.
‘I put some plastic cutlery in there as well, sweetie. Enjoy the rest of your night.’
Lucas picked up the box and left notes and a handful of change on the table. He waved a silent goodbye and walked down the steps to where he’d parked his car.
He crouched down at the driver’s side and ran his hand under the front wheel arch. He felt along the top of the tyre and retrieved his keys. He unlocked the car, moved around to the bac
k and popped open the trunk. The small courtesy light cut through the interior gloom. He banged the lid shut, got in the car and drove away.
The roads were clear and in a little over two hours Lucas was back in San Diego sitting in his apartment. The speedometer had hugged a number much bigger than fifty-five on the way back.
‘How did it go?’ Harper asked.
‘Like clockwork.’
‘Any problems?’
‘A trucker wanted to rip my head off for ordering waffles, French toast and bacon. But other than that it went fine.’
‘That was an unusual way to identify yourself. Whatever happened to wearing a red rose and carrying a newspaper.’
‘That’s what they said to do, so that’s what I did. I figured they must think no one orders breakfast at that time of day.’ He tossed Harper the takeout box. He opened it and set about the congealed mess with the plastic fork.
‘What was the guy like?’
‘Real scruffy. He’d have made a convincing hobo if it wasn’t for his one-hundred-dollar manicure.’
Harper stifled a laugh.
‘Is that it?’ Harper asked casting his eyes down to the floor. Sitting in the middle of the room was the black Puma sports bag.
‘Yup.’
‘You checked it?’
‘Didn’t see the point. What am I going to do at ten o’clock at night on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere if it’s wrong?’
Harper put away the box of food and sat down next to the bag. He drew back the zip and opened it up.
The first thing that struck them was the smell of newly issued bank notes. Harper reached inside and pulled out a brick of money. He upended the bag and bundles of tightly wrapped cash spilled onto the carpet.
‘Jesus,’ he whistled under his breath. He stacked them into piles of five and began to count.
He looked like a kid playing with a set of very expensive building blocks.
‘Forty thousand dollars,’ he said once he’d finished stacking.
There was a rapid knock at the door.
‘Shit, who’s that?’ Lucas said.
‘Room service,’ said a voice on the other side.
Harper looked at Lucas and mouthed the words, ‘I didn’t order room service.’ He jumped up, ran to the bedroom and returned with his gun.
Lucas scrabbled around on the floor throwing the money into the bag.
Another knock.
‘Room service.’
Lucas zipped the bag shut and shoved it behind the couch. Harper was by the door, his gun pointing to the ceiling.
‘Who is it?’ Lucas asked.
‘Room service.’
Lucas pulled back the lock. He twisted the handle and cracked open the door. He peered through the gap.
It was Rebecca Moran.
27
‘What the—’ Lucas stepped back.
Moran shoved the door open and forced herself inside.
Harper levelled his weapon, unsure what the hell was going on.
Moran walked to the centre of the room and dumped her bags. She saw the gun.
‘Really, Harper? Put it away, cowboy.’
Harper slid the gun in his waistband and skulked off to the bathroom.
‘What are you doing here?’ Lucas asked.
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Are you on your own?’
‘Oh yes, I’m very much on my own.’ She slumped into an armchair.
‘How did you find us?’
‘I faxed you the information on Jameson, remember, and I am a detective after all. Or was until thirty-six hours ago.’
‘How did you get past the man on reception? Are you booked in?’
‘No, the hotel was full. Getting in was easy, I think he thought I was a hooker.’
‘Fucking unlikely.’ Harper returned and sat opposite Moran.
Moran wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or an insult. She plumped for insult.
‘Come on, Moran,’ said Harper. ‘Put us out of our misery, why are you here?’
‘I’ve been suspended from duty.’
Harper let out a belly laugh.
‘How come?’ asked Lucas.
‘I did what you asked. I said there were no unusual transactions on the Shamon account and it came back to bite me. The guy running the investigation discovered the truth and I was out.’
‘What exactly do the cops know?’ asked Harper.
‘They know about the monies transferred to Helix Holdings and they know they came from Nassra Shamon.’
‘And you figure this Shamon woman is Mechanic,’ said Lucas.
‘Yup.’
‘So we’re screwed,’ said Harper, getting out of his chair and waving his arms around.
‘Not necessarily,’ said Moran.
‘Of course we are. When I told you to bury the account details, I didn’t just mean lie about them. I meant delete them. Get rid of the evidence. Bury them. You stupid woman!’
‘Wow,’ said Lucas. ‘Let’s all calm down.’
‘Calm down, my ass. We are now facing the prospect of the cops pulling Jameson when we are closing in on a deal that will lead to us to Mechanic.’
‘Deal, what deal?’ asked Moran.
‘This fucking deal.’ Harper went behind the sofa and pulled out the sports bag. He opened it and shook the contents onto the floor.
‘Jesus Christ.’ Moran’s eyes were the size of saucers.
‘But it doesn’t matter now because we’re fucked. You fucked us over.’
‘No I haven’t.’
‘That’s enough, Harper,’ Lucas said.
‘I can’t fucking believe it. All that work, all that planning, and you’ve screwed it up by being sloppy. You get suspended and think you can walk in here to lend a hand. That’s it, isn’t it?’
Harper lunged across the room and put both hands on the arms of Moran’s chair his face inches from hers.
‘You stupid little schoolgirl!’
Moran reached around and pulled the gun from his waistband. She jammed the muzzle under his chin.
‘You touch me and I swear I’ll fucking kill you.’
Everybody froze.
‘Moran, don’t be ridiculous, put the gun down,’ Lucas said.
Harper inched back as he felt the cold metal boring into his flesh. He lifted his hands off the chair in a sign of surrender.
Moran got up, the gun digging hard into his throat.
‘Do you hear me?’ she asked, forcing him to retreat.
She drove Harper all the way across the room and back into his chair.
‘Moran, put the gun down,’ Lucas said.
‘I said, do you hear me?’ Moran hissed the words in Harper’s face.
Harper nodded.
‘I want to hear you say it. Do you hear me?’
‘Yes, I hear you.’
‘Good.’ She strode over to her bags and opened one up. She rooted inside and produced a fistful of papers. She walked back to Harper and threw them in his lap.
‘We are not fucked, because these are the documents relating to Sheldon Chemicals and Gerry Vickers. I took them from the Helix file and hid the rest in the records office. I doubt if they will find it for some time.’
‘You went to the records office in Tallahassee?’ asked Lucas.
‘Yes, powered flight is a wonderful thing.’ She put the gun on a side table. ‘So you see the cops won’t be looking for Jameson, because they don’t know he exists. They will unravel it eventually, but until then we proceed as planned.’
Harper looked sheepish, and a little shaken at by being taken out by a schoolgirl.
28
Mechanic booked herself into The Kings Motel just off the main drag, about two miles east of town. It was low-end accommodation that bordered on being a dump. The rooms were small and the plumbing banged in protest every time someone flushed the toilet. She slept on top of the quilt with a blanket thrown over her to avoid the wildlife living between the sheets.
The Kings did however have a few redeeming features. The man behind reception didn’t ask for ID, so Amy Cheshire was now the new guest staying in a double room, for single occupancy, for two nights. He accepted cash for the booking and most important of all, the car park had no CCTV.
Mechanic had a bad night tossing and turning thinking about her father and their conversation in the bar. Eventually, as the digits on the radio alarm flicked over to 3am, she got up and switched on the TV. There were only four channels and each one was showing a crap programme. But the numbing effect worked well and she drifted off to sleep with the TV on in the background.
When the morning light burst through the thin drapes, Mechanic felt better. In the shower she had managed to convince herself that it was the booze talking and she should give her father another chance. She handed her key into reception and headed into town.
She parked up opposite Pavilion Park Homes and walked to her father’s place. She rapped on the door. There was the sound of frantic scrabbling coming from inside and the door sprung open. In the pale glow of the early morning sun Stewart Sells looked even more yellow than usual, especially when dressed in pyjama bottoms with no top. Mechanic looked at his body: skin and bones with not much else.
‘Oh, hi,’ he said.
‘Hi, how are you this morning?’
‘Pretty good, how about yourself?’
‘Yeah, I’m okay, but I’m hungry. Have you had breakfast?’
‘Er, no, and I could eat right now. Come in while I get ready.’
She entered the small bungalow and closed the door. The place was brightly decorated and carpeted throughout. Mechanic could see a bedroom and bathroom and a small kitchen through an arch in the wall. There was a faint smell of fresh paint. It was pleasant enough.
Unfortunately, the lounge was littered with unwashed plates and the two-seater sofa and armchair looked like they’d been sat on by an elephant. The kitchen was no better, with not an inch of worktop visible due to the food wrappers and takeout boxes strewn across it. A mound of dirty laundry was piled into one corner of the bedroom. Red emergency cords hung from the ceiling in every room. Mechanic figured the maintenance of the building was the responsibility of the home, while the rest was the responsibility of her father.