by Ian Jones
Everyone was scared of him. That was a simple fact. Despite all the bravado and what was said when he wasn’t with them the fear was tangible, absolute. He was in charge. They did what he told them. Nobody ever questioned. He made everyone nervous. There were rumours of what he had done in the past, unverified but believable.
This meant that right now Rico was conscious of getting too close to the big man, and he stood to one side, deferentially.
‘So it went wrong,’ Voorhees said calmly. Unnecessarily in Rico’s opinion, not that he would ever say so.
‘It did,’ he agreed.
‘You failed.’
Rico shook his head vigorously.
‘No Yann. I didn’t. We didn’t. The intelligence was wrong. It wasn’t there. I don’t even know if she was there if I’m being real honest, we never saw a clear photo. I mean I guess it might have been her but the package wasn’t. Definitely.’
‘She was there. I have been told. She was seen going in. These people do not make mistakes.’
‘Yann I don’t know what she looks like. None of us did. We only had the description, the photo could have been anyone.’
‘I just told you. I thought I made it clear. She walked in the station. They knew exactly where she was from when she arrived. She was being tailed, she was with the other woman. I explained this to you. This is why you were told to be Downtown, we knew where she would go, it was all set up.’
Rico sighed.
‘Look Yann, we searched all the bags. it wasn’t there. I don’t know why it wasn’t, and I sure as hell don’t know what you were told but there was nothing. And they searched everyone, every bag.’
Yann glanced over to the back of the room at Sal then turned and gestured at the doorway.
‘Come in here Rico.’
He led the way to the room he called his office. This would have been the living room. It was the biggest in the apartment and the only one with proper windows. There had been a lot of resentment that Voorhees had made it into his office considering the cramped conditions elsewhere, but of course nobody had said anything. There was a wide table in the middle of the room with an ancient laptop on it and an old beaten-up office chair. Voorhees spent most of his time here. Nobody knew what he did all day, or what the laptop was for. There was no Internet in the apartment as far as anyone knew, but again, nobody said a word.
Voorhees walked around the table and lowered himself into the chair which creaked alarmingly. He laid his forearms onto the table top with a heavy thump and leaned back.
There were no other chairs in the room, any time anybody had to talk to him they had to stand in front of the table feeling like a child. But Rico was defiant. This had not been his fuck up, whatever Voorhees said or did now. He had done exactly as he was told. He walked over to the side of the room and looked out of the window saying nothing. They were five floors up, he looked down in the darkness at a scruffy parking lot and a scruffier basketball court, and then the freeway, bright headlights sweeping in both directions. On the other side of that was a large construction site, a mall being built. The whole area felt depressed, the apartment block they were living in had sprung up with a bunch of others all round it back in the seventies, and they hadn’t lasted well. There were a couple of blocks of cheap shops and bars, a few fast-food outlets, and that was it. Mount Pleasant, Los Angeles, USA. Mount Pleasant? Yeah, right.
He turned to look at Voorhees who was still staring at him.
‘So, tell me then Rico. What happened? And where are the others?’
Voorhees had a high, mesmerising, sing-song voice, which was impossible to read. If he was berating someone’s ineptitude or talking about the weather it always sounded the same.
‘We did exactly as we planned. Exactly. We were there and waited till we got your call. All of us went in the station, OK? We did everything as you told us to. Once we were downstairs Pol and Sung went off down the platform, we were looking at all the women, just to be sure. Max stayed put at the bottom and me and Sal came back upstairs. Like I said, just as we planned it.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing. The place was real quiet, not many people there. Lot of screaming and yelling then we heard the shooting. Then Pol shouted out to Max, and he called up to us. It wasn’t in any of the bags, there was nothing. It was a bust, right? I told Max to keep looking then me and Sal hustled back to the van and waited.’
‘So where are the others?’
‘I don’t know Yann. I have no fucking idea. We were sitting there and like in minutes the place is filling with cops, all running in the station. It was crazy how quick they were there. Then we moved out the way, we could see the doors but nobody came out. So we bailed, there was no choice.’
‘Lot of witnesses Rico. There’s a guy who says he is going to hunt you down, he’s on the TV.’
‘What? Who? What guy?’
‘I have no idea Rico, but it’s what he said.’
Rico snorted.
‘Right. Let him try. I’ll deal with him.’
Voorhees pursed his lips.
‘Rico, we are being paid to do something. We are very expensive to hire. There is lots of planning. This is our first job together am I right? And what happens? Five of you go out, and two come back. Lot of money has been spent but I am down three men and I don’t have what they need. I’ve got to explain this. I have to make the phone call. Tell me Rico, what do I say?’
Rico shrugged, he wanted to be able to say something in his own defence but nothing would come to mind. This had not been his fuck up, whatever the fat man said. He needed a distraction, then remembered Voorhees was always going on about being connected.
‘But you can find out right Yann? I mean, what happened to the others. You can find out.’
Voorhees picked up a cellphone from the desk. It looked impossibly tiny in his vast paw. He dropped it and spun it around on the table top.
‘No doubt I will get a call Rico. Leave me in peace. I need to make some arrangements.’
It was a short journey, once they got clear of the scene they were pulling up in the police precinct car park within five minutes. Macker got out first and opened the door for John who climbed out and then stood looking around. This was obviously a police parking area, but it was practically deserted. He guessed everyone would be down at the Metro station. Rose joined him and led the way over to the building. Both policemen seemed awkward, embarrassed. Rose punched in a code and the door buzzed open. They walked into a rectangular room with a squared off section of bars down on the right with a couple of sorry looking individuals sitting inside and nothing else there other than a high desk at the back. John looked at Rose quizzically.
‘I’m real sorry John. We gotta book you. It ain’t our choice, but orders is orders.’
John froze. Macker stood looking at the floor. Rose held his hands out; gesturing toward the desk.
‘Book me for what?’ John asked.
‘We just gotta book you in. Get you checked over. Truman wants to talk to you. We’re at the bottom of the food chain here. We just do what we get told,’ Rose replied, visibly bothered by what he had been told to do.
‘Fuck this,’ Macker growled and walked over to the desk. A tall sergeant moved over to talk to him. Macker’s body language was clear; it wasn’t just he wasn’t happy, he was very angry. The sergeant calmed him down as best he could, looking over at John the whole time. Rose sighed loudly and then took John over.
John Smith stood in front of the desk, pissed off. His head hurt. He looked over at the cage.
‘Drunk tank,’ Rose told him. ‘Don’t worry, you ain’t going in there.’
The sergeant smiled at him ruefully, and Rose passed over John’s passport. The sergeant nodded his thanks and began typing on a keyboard. He also looked awkward with the situation now that Macker had spoken to him.
‘So, if I’m being booked, what’s the charge?’ John asked.
The sergeant looked at him earnestly.
<
br /> ‘There is no charge Mr Smith. As far as I can see we only need to talk to you regarding the terrorist incident you … er … witnessed. So we’re just going to look after you here until Captain Truman gets back. He gives the orders, he wants you booked in. I’m sure you will be on your way real soon. I’m sorry, you need to empty your pockets.’
He shrugged. Macker tutted loudly.
John shook his head and did as he was asked. A few hundred dollars and the key card for his hotel room. The sergeant swept them carefully into a plastic bag along with the passport and printed John Smith and the date and time on the label then sealed the bag.
To John’s left was a barred steel gate. The sergeant pressed a button under the desk and it clicked open.
‘This way Mr Smith. You two stay out here,’ the sergeant said with a look at Rose and Macker, and then guided John through the gate and pulled it closed behind them. There was a steep set of steps going down and then a double right turn so they ended up under where they started. Now they were in a long room, cells on either side. Simple bars and gates. Most were empty. They walked down to the end where there was a cell with a partition wall to the rest in its row and it had a toilet with a sink set in the top of the cistern. John looked at the sergeant.
‘VIP?’ he asked.
The sergeant grinned uncomfortably.
‘Yeah, we get the occasional Hollywood someone or other in here, usually a DUI. We have to keep them comfortable.’
He turned and looked up at a camera set high on the wall and the gate to the cell opened. John walked in and sat down on the low bunk. He stared up at the sergeant.
‘Mr Smith, I am real sorry about this. Way I hear it, you deserve a medal not all this bullshit. But I ain’t taking your shoes or your watch OK? I got to put you in here but it don’t mean I agree with it.’
‘How long am I gonna be stuck in here?’
‘I’m positive it won’t be long. It sounds like they just want to clear a few things up. It’s a really big deal, it would be in any city, something like that happening. The public and the press needs to be handled right, you know, there will be a lot of panic.’
John shook his head, saying nothing. The sergeant moved outside the cell and closed the door, then looked in through the bars.
‘Look it gets a bit chilly down here, I’ll dig out another blanket and find you a pillow. I’ll get you a bottle of water too, but if you need anything there’s a buzzer on the wall right there.’
‘Maybe a couple of painkillers if you can find some.’
‘Sure. Anything else, just buzz I’ll be right down.’
John looked up at the red button and then back at the sergeant, who coughed awkwardly and walked away.
John went over to the tiny sink and ran the tap, and washed the worst of the blood from his face, using his watch glass as a mirror. There was a lot of blood on his polo shirt. His head hurt, what he really wanted was to get back to the hotel and lie down, but he guessed that was going to take some time yet.
The sergeant was back in a few minutes with the blanket and a pillow, a couple of ibuprofens and two bottles of water. John took them and made himself comfortable on the bunk, leaning back against the wall and drawing his knees up. Hopefully Truman wouldn’t keep him hanging around too long.
In the end it was over an hour when the sergeant came sheepishly back. John looked at his watch, just after 1am, it felt like it should be a lot later. He stood up and waited for the door to open. The sergeant stepped back and allowed John through and then ushered him along between the two lines of cells, which didn’t seem to have acquired any more residents.
‘Quiet tonight right?’ John commented.
‘Thank Christ,’ the sergeant replied. ‘We got enough to do now we got terrorists on the loose. I gotta thank you personally for taking some of them out the game. Serious shit.’
They reached the top of the steps and then walked across the front of the desk to a set of doors on the opposite side of the room. It looked like there were a couple of newcomers in the drunk tank. The sergeant entered a code and then pushed the door open and they were in a corridor with numbered doors on either side. Everything was quiet and clean. He stopped outside number three and rapped on the door and then pushed it open. John walked through into a small square interview room with a large pane of mirrored glass on the far wall. There was a camera set up high and recording equipment in a corner. Truman and the older man who had arrived at the Metro station with him were sitting down at the table in the centre. Truman gestured for John to sit down and he did so. Silently the sergeant left the room and closed the door behind him.
John looked at the two men opposite. Truman was fussily fidgeting around his seat, the older man reached out a hand.
‘Mr Smith, my name is Chief Brady. We need to discuss the events of tonight with you, anything you can tell us will be a great help.’
John nodded his head and shook the man’s hand. He glanced at Truman who was still squirming around irritatingly. Truman scowled and spoke accusingly.
‘And no more bullshit OK? No more; I’ve heard enough. Stick to the truth,’ he growled glaring at John.
John was confused, bullshit? He hadn’t actually said anything yet. He wanted to make the point but decided to stay patient.
‘Fine, where do you want me to start?’
‘At the beginning, and I have to tell you we are recording this conversation is this OK with you?’ Brady asked, producing a thick well-used notepad and pen.
‘No problem.’
So John relayed everything from his arrival at the Metro station, missing nothing out, speaking clearly and carefully. He even included picking up the woman’s dropped phone. Brady made occasional notes, while Truman sat fidgeting, staring across the table and shaking his head. When he finished John sat back and looked steadily at the two men. He wondered who was watching on the other side of the mirror, if anyone was.
Truman was obviously desperate to speak but was restrained by Brady who was scanning through what he had written, which wasn’t a great deal. He raised his head.
‘So, Mr Smith …’
‘John.’
‘OK. John. So, John, just tell me what you are doing in LA, why were you in the Downtown area?’
‘I’m over here doing some work for a client. I’ve been successful, so he took me out for dinner. I was just going back to my hotel.’
‘Downtown?’ growled Truman. ‘Nothing there. There’s more interesting places to be in this city.’
John glanced at him then back to Brady.
‘Like I just said, my client invited me to dinner. His choice.’
‘Right. And where are you staying?’ Brady asked.
‘Montage.’
Truman whistled. Brady raised his eyebrows.
‘Expensive tastes. So what is it that you do, exactly?’
‘I resolve problems.’
Brady looked unimpressed.
‘Very vague explanation Mr Smith if you don’t mind me saying so.’
John shrugged.
‘You asked and that’s what I do. Nothing else to say.’
‘Well, that’s a matter for further discussion. You said you are over here for business so who are you working for?’
John did work for many people, plenty of whom would prefer to stay under the radar, particularly when it came to police involvement. Fortunately in this case, there were no such problems.
‘It’s a guy called Simon Butler. You won’t know him. He’s British, but he spends quite a bit of time here. He is a property developer, a lot of international stuff.’
Brady scribbled the name down.
‘OK, so what are you doing for him?’
‘It’s already done. He had a problem with a partner here. Deals had been done but he hadn’t received any payments.’
Unable to contain himself any longer Truman butted into the conversation, leaning forward aggressively.
‘Why couldn’t he just have sorted t
hat out for himself? It must have cost him a fortune to fly you all the way out here and put you up in the Montage, plus I expect you want paying for it. I assume this is a lot of money we are talking about.’
‘He tried, but he was encouraged to forget about it. Threats were made. Mr Butler prefers to keep his hands clean, so to speak. And yes, it is a lot of money.’
Truman sneered
‘This is bullshit.’
Brady tutted.
‘Dennis, please. We’re having a conversation, getting to the facts. And to be frank, at the moment you aren’t helping. Mr Smith how long have you been in LA?’
‘I arrived Friday evening, about seven. Simon picked me up and took me to the hotel. Then we met up in the morning and I went to see his business partner over here.’
‘Right, and who is this partner?’
Again, John had no reason not to answer.
‘His name is Randall Flanagan. He has some kind of property business here.’
Truman looked blank but Brady clapped his hands slowly.
‘Randy Flanagan? Jesus. Been a few years since we heard from Mister Flanagan. No wonder your guy didn’t have any luck with him, he is a solid gold crook that guy. Jesus, so he’s in the property development game now. I can’t recall the last time his name got mentioned. But he’s got a fellow as big as a house looks out for him. Clarence I believe his name is from memory. So what did you do that changed his mind?’