by Ray Banks
“Yeah,” he said. “Callum, get up here.”
I got up, moved to the passenger side as Ed checked the mirrors. The engine already running, a throbbing undercurrent that went through the entire vehicle. I sat down, buckled up.
“A man doesn't shoot another man unless he's done something wrong,” said Ed, throwing the RV into gear. “That's the way the world is.”
As he drove, he reached for a soft pack of Lucky Strikes on the dash. He held the pack out to me; I took a cigarette. He lit both, puffed smoke as he continued. “Look at it this way: there's two guys in a bar, they ain't talking to each other, just drinking. One of the guys gets up, he moseys over to the juke, sticks a quarter in the slot and puts on a song. A couple bars in, the other guy goes crazy, starts beating on the music lover. Now what do you think?”
“Bloke didn't like the song?”
“Maybe. Your thinking is it's the song that set him off. But it's never just the song. It's what the song means. Maybe he didn't like the tune because the music lover stole his girl a long time ago and that was her favourite song, or it was the song playing on the radio when he found the two of 'em in bed together or it was the song playing when she told him she didn't want to be with him anymore. Or it could be the singer reminds him of his father or his mother who used to beat on him. Or maybe it's just that this guy's had too many beers and reckons this is a fine time to start a brawl.”
“Okay.”
“Now, when it's all over, are you gonna ask the guy why he beat the crap out of the music lover?”
“No.”
“No. Exactly. That's what I'm saying. I'm saying there's a reason things happen. You don't always have to know the reason, just accept that there is one. That's what started it, that's the reason. You got yourself shot up, and you deserved it.”
Marie made a disapproving noise. “Ed, that's not fair.”
“Don't take offence, son. That's just the way it is.”
I took a drag from the Lucky Strike, blew smoke. Looked out at the road and watched the lines on the asphalt break as they passed under the RV. “I deserved it.”
Ed nodded. “You're damn right you deserved it. You don't get shot if you don't deserve it.”
“What about that poor guy in Tulsa?” said Marie.
“That guy in Tulsa, he did something in his life.” Ed's hands loosened on the steering wheel, then flattened as if he was trying to shake out pins and needles. “He must have. I mean, Marie, you're a God's honest Christian, you believe He has a plan.”
Marie started to say something, but stopped herself.
“And part of that belief is knowing when to question and when to accept. You don't question God's will, you accept it. But you, Callum, I question.”
“That's okay.”
“I have to question. I sold insurance too long not to question. You go to someone's door, you ask yourself, 'Can these people afford what I have to sell?' and then, then you ask yourself, 'Can these people afford to pass me by?' You understand what I'm saying?”
“You question,” I say.
“But I don't always ask the right questions. I'm not always blessed with the intelligence to ask what I need to ask. Sometimes you need someone who knows what they're doing. Sometimes you need a professional.”
“I see.”
“So you get it.”
I narrowed my eyes at the sun. “Yeah.”
“I know you're not keen on the cops,” said Ed. “But if any of this story is as serious as you made it out to be, then the authorities need to be notified.”
“It's for the best, Callum,” said Marie.
“I'm sure it is.”
These two rescued me, only to throw me back to the lions. I nodded. They thought I was agreeing when I was twisted up inside.
“I'm glad you understand, Callum. And this ain't to say I didn't believe everything…”
“You just didn't know the questions.”
“Yeah. We're helping you.”
“Helping you help yourself,” said Marie.
I ran through it over and over in the silence that followed. As much as I wanted to get this sorted — find Liam, hop on the next plane out of LAX — it was just a pipe dream. An abandoned car was one thing. But an abandoned rental car in my name, fractured with bullets and covered in blood, that wasn't going to stay unreported. The police had to be involved. Telling Ed and Marie the story so far just crystallised events. I didn't have an ending. And I thought, let the police handle it, clean up the mess. But I still needed to find Liam. Nobody else would. If he was still alive, that would be enough. If he wasn't…
Well, I'd have to play it by ear.
The city started to close in on me, the blur of the desert turning back to civilisation. I closed my eyes for a moment, opened them and familiar-looking streets came into focus. At second glance, I didn't recognise the places other than the usual brand chains. Starbucks, 7-11, Dunkin' Donuts. Mangle it into one solid movie memory and dust with the fear of going to prison. Because American cops were movie cops. They wore mirrored sunglasses, pointed a gun with half a hot dog hanging out of their mouth. The police stations were clean and sterile. Or else the sweaty heave of an overcrowded cell, packed with pendejos and perverts. Chucked in there until the cops could work out what to do with a Brit who came right in and 'fessed up to…
What? I hadn't done anything.
Not that Ed believed it.
There was a reason for everything in Ed's philosophy. It was all part of God's big plan.
And Shapiro found God in prison. Maybe it was this kind of bullshit He was locked up for.
I saw a street sign: E. 6th Street. Downtown. I looked out of the window and there was a police station, large gold letters hammered into a red brick wall. A stars and stripes fluttered outside. The message was clear enough: we are going to fucking incarcerate you.
Ed eased the RV over to the side of the road, a manouevre that made him grunt with the effort. Motorhomes aren't built for urban driving, which made me wonder why he'd taken me all the way to the middle of the city. Ed let the engine idle as he turned in his seat.
“You know what you have to do,” he said.
I clicked off my seat belt, stared at the station. Yeah, I knew what I had to do.
“You want us to come in with you?” said Marie.
“Nah, you're alright,” I said. Then, to Ed: “You got another cigarette?”
“Yeah, sure.” He handed me another Lucky Strike.
I stepped down from the RV and lit the cigarette. The smoke closed my chest, rose up and into my eyes. I realised how dry my mouth was. Looked at myself in the side mirror of the RV, got a dusty and bloody look in return.
I walked around to the other side of the motorhome as Ed buzzed down the window.
“I wanted to say thank you,” I said.
“No problem.”
I spat tobacco at the ground. Turned, dropped the cigarette and began to walk to the police station.
And because I had plenty of self-discipline, I waited until I got to the front steps before I broke into a run.
34
“They dropped you at your hotel,” says Wallace.
“That's correct.”
Sorry, Ed.
Sorry, Marie.
I'm not that kind of bloke. You want to call it being brave and facing my responsibilities; I call it fucking myself too early in the game. And maybe I'm a coward, but I couldn't just walk into a police station and start spilling my guts. My story so far, it wasn't for the police. If it wasn't good enough to pass the Ed Test, then it certainly wasn't good enough to put in front of the fucking 5-0.
You guys might believe in the almighty power of the authorities, but I've seen too much to hang onto my faith.
I ducked into a side street, melted into a hurried walk, then down to a stroll. Tried not to look behind me, but I kept listening for the RV rumbling around the corner. My back prickled, but it was nothing compared to the ache in my neck and the painful itch of what used to b
e my left ear.
Sorry, Ed.
Sorry, Marie.
You guys were the ones I'd face on a jury. Mr and Mrs Whitebread Middle America. Twelve of you. Because something like this led to a jury, ended with a cell. Nelson tried to shoot me and it was my fault? That's what the survey said, and there was no reason to think the cops would believe otherwise.
I couldn't do time. Not again. I was scared as I walked, my heart thumping with something other than the exercise. This was a strange country and I was a stranger in it. The one thing I'd learned: you couldn't trust anyone. That bloke you thought was a friend, the bloke you thought was looking out for you? He was a liar. Worse than that, he was a fucking security guard or something and he was one wrong comment away from shoving a gun in your face.
The stroll became laboured, my legs seizing up. I took a breather by a newspaper vending machine, leaned on it and looked back up the street. No sign of the RV. I laughed. Scared out of my mind because of an elderly couple in a fucking motorhome.
A guy in a suit quickened his step as he passed me.
There I was, fitting in after all.
Another crazy bastard.
****
I found my way back to the hotel, grabbed my pills from my room.
The cash was gone. Nelson must've taken it. Or the maid. I pulled open my wallet, found a stack of notes in there, the last of my holiday money.
Bollocks to it. I didn't need to eat and I didn't have time to hang around here. No doubt Ed and Marie had done their civic duty and called the cops themselves. As I got to the foyer, I spotted a middle-aged woman getting out of a white cab. She was loaded down with shopping bags, the paper-and-rope deals you got at the classy boutiques. I hurried through the doors, out and slipped into the back seat of the cab before she noticed me. I dug out Nelson's directions and passed them forward to the driver.
“Reckon you can get me there?” I said.
The driver looked at me in the rear view. “It's way out of my way.”
“But you could get me there.”
“I don't mean to be rude or nothing, but this'll cost you.”
I held up a fistful of banknotes. “More than this?”
“I got you, sir,” he said, screaming the cab out into traffic. I watched the diehard shopper frown at the taxi as we left her in our dust.
“She doesn't look too happy,” I said.
“Fuck her, and pardon my French, but those ladies, they think a cabbie's their fucking houseboy.” He shook his head. “Not this cabbie, no sir. Got me some dignity left, kinda like to hang onto it as long as possible.”
“Too right.”
Most of the journey, the driver kept his mouth shut. Not like I wouldn't have talked to him, but I liked it that he didn't feel the need to chat about nothing. I just wished we had more of that in Britain. It'd be a far happier place if people knew when to shut the fuck up. And the silence gave me time to think. I swallowed a fistful of codeine to make up for lost time, caught the cabbie watching me in the mirror.
“They're for my back,” I said.
“I ain't judging.”
“Good. Because I was starting to like you.”
Two hours on, I pointed to Nelson's house and we pulled up outside. I got out of the cab, paid the guy. The fare was a gouger.
“You free to wait?”
“How long you gonna be?”
“As long as I need to be.”
“I got other calls, man. I can't be—”
“And I've got plenty of money. The exchange rate's shitty. You want to stay out here, I'll chuck in another hundred on top of waiting time and whatever you're going to stiff me on the way back.”
He looked like he was thinking about it, his bottom lip stuck out. He reached out for the Tex Avery wolf figurine on the dashboard and flicked its head. The wolf bobbled. I watched him.
“Yeah, why not?” he said.
****
I didn't expect Nelson to be home and he didn't disappoint me. I went round to the side of his place to look for a back yard. An awkward hop over a small picket fence and I was there, crossing in front of a small pool. The water feature — which looked like a pipe chugging water — was in full flow, which put me on edge for a moment. But after a quick recce of the living room through the patio doors, I suspected that all the running water was a permanent thing.
I wished I had my cricket bat.
I kicked at the patio door instead. The glass shook but didn't break. Obviously made from some double-glazed, hard-as-nails substance. At least I hadn't seen Nelson. I could afford to be a bit noisier. So I went back round to the front of the house. The cab was still there. Good. I marched up to the front door and aimed my foot at the lock. Bounced back, almost went on my arse. Tried it again and a vibration went through my leg so hard I had to take a moment to myself. Looked up at the cab driver and he was smiling.
“Enjoying the show?” I said.
He raised his hands and applauded in the car.
Fucker.
I charged at the front door, bounced again and wrecked my shoulder. Lost my temper and started kicking all over the door, finally aimed a kick that prompted the sound of splintering wood. That was the ticket. Spot fucking on. I felt good enough to try it again, so I did, aiming at the same place. Another crack. Then the lock.
It took a solid five minutes for the door to give way. I know that because the cab driver leaned out of the car and shouted my time at me.
I pushed inside the house, the sweat I had immediately cooling on my skin as the air conditioning brushed my face. The living room was deserted. I could hear the gentle hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Kept listening for any other noise. Nothing. If I was wrong about Nelson being out, he was being quiet about it.
First things first, I pushed open the door that led to the basement. Took it easy on the steps going down, hearing the wood creak underfoot. At the bottom, I fumbled for the pull-switch, grabbed it with one shaking hand and yanked hard. A light clicked on, throwing a pool of yellow about five feet, fading fast. The exercise equipment carved harsh shadows against the concrete walls.
“Liam?”
If he was down here, I couldn't see him. More to the point, I couldn't hear him or smell him. If he was dead and anywhere in the house, that would have been a major giveaway, air conditioning or no air conditioning.
Of course, he might not have been in the house. Nelson could have taken him somewhere else.
I didn't want to get on that train of thought.
I climbed the steps, took them as carefully as when I'd descended. Still nothing doing upstairs. I walked through to Nelson's bedroom. The uniform was still lying on the bed, but the gun was long gone. Checked out the shirt, it had a logo on the right pocket: a golden lion hanging onto the bars of a cage, the words REGAL SECURITY curled above it.
Hadn't had a job-type job in years, my arse. Suppose it was a fancy dress costume I was looking at. And that fucking gun wasn't real with real fucking bullets.
I went over to the closet thinking, if he had anything to hide, it'd be in there. I slid the door across, came face to face with more uniform shirts. Some of them were Regal Security, others with different logos, different company names. A few casual shirts, a couple of pairs of casual trousers, but nothing like the amount a guy normally had. This was a bloke used to wearing a uniform, spent most of his life at work. This wasn't someone who used to be in the fight game, not as far as I could see. At the bottom of the closet, a pile of trainers, some more formal but scuffed shoes. And next to the pile, shoe boxes, stacked one on top of the other. I bent down, grabbed one of the boxes and flipped off the lid.
Nelson Byrne was divorced. This is what he told me. He'd also said it wasn't a sad story.
The photos in the shoe box said different. There were loads of them. Photos of Nelson, grinning and bearded. Then a moustache. Then clean-shaven, but haggard. The glasses appeared in all of the pictures, different frames in each until I found a clutch of photos
that shared the same pair. Nelson standing with a pretty brunette. Her smile shone from the photo; his seemed forced. There they were, holding up a hot dog in a Lady And The Tramp pose. Behind them, I could make out the front of Skooby's.
You really know how to show a girl a good time, Nelson.
But something else I'd noticed, I had to double check.
Yeah. Nelson Byrne was a chubby bastard at one point. Check the next set, and he'd lost a little weight but not much. Had that puffy face of an inveterate drinker. I knew that face only too well — seen it enough in my bathroom mirror.
“If you were pro, Nelson, where's the fuckin' proof?” I said.
Because there should have been something. Boxers were just like everyone else. They got their name in the paper, they'd cut it out. A good review would be framed. And even betting that Nelson was modest — which he wasn't or he wouldn't have mentioned his pro status — where was the proof?
All I saw was a divorced guy who couldn't let go of the past. And someone I'd trusted to look after a kid.
A sound, like a creak.
I turned, listened hard. Put the box on the bed carefully and crept to the door.
There it was again.
Through the kitchen, and the creak got louder. I stopped in front of a closed door at the back of the house. I didn't want to open it. Felt my gut tighten, wanted to puke badly. Knowing there was something behind the door that I didn't want to see, but had to.
I pushed down on the handle, opened the door.
And there was Liam, the bribe sitting on the table next to him.
35
Silence in the interview room. Wallace looks at the floor. Across from me, Munroe has steepled his fingers.
“You didn't check the guy's credentials?” says Wallace.
“Whose, Nelson's?”
“Yeah.”
“No, I didn't feel the need.”
“When you talked to Mr Byrne in the bar, when you first met him, did you mention boxing first?” says Munroe.
“Anyone in their right mind would have checked his credentials,” says Wallace. “It's the first thing you do. At least Google him or something.”