He did track Dom’s whereabouts learning Dom was in jail, up on car theft charges, and that no one knew where Weazer was. Weazer had either been caught up in the sweep or had simply decided to make himself scarce for a while. He sometimes disappeared without explanation, popping back up in the area when it suited him.
Payton did check, using his “up and coming young business man” disguise and found Harmony House to be vacant, a For Rent sign taped on the front window. There had been nothing in the papers, and yes, he had paid to read them. Cover-up was all he could think. All the more reason to stay on the down low. He retired his Tatt Thug personality immediately.
This was his fault. He had to get Dom out. He had to find Weazer.
Back up in Tree, he counted out what was left of his can money, no longer dreaming of an apartment and getting close to Zhang. He’d deal with that mess later.
He looked at the pitiable row of bills and pile of coins. Not enough to bail Dom out. He’d need at least five grand. Could he get five thousand dollars? Never going to happen. His can gathering days were over, not that five grand could be gathered up along the highway in his lifetime. The charmers over at Harmony House knew that’s how he’d made his money and was why he’d been mugged to start with. He’d been so grateful, blabbing all about the mugging and the eighty dollars and the pay-as-you-go phone he’d been saving up for. He’d been stupid. Never again would he divulge any personal information to a stranger—which meant everyone here in WEN 2036.
What could he do to scare up some serious cash, quickly?
None of the ideas that occurred to him were legal, of course, and most of them were damned dangerous. But Dom had stolen a car and saved his life, based on one call for help. Weazer had gone hungry so Payton could eat.
Payton thought again about being a drug runner for Glenn Gibbons. It would mean showing his scarred face and risking the cops finding him. What choice did he have?
Dom had risked everything for him.
Deadened by the step he had no choice but to make, he slowly stacked the bills back together. If only he had a stake to play the market. He’d have that money and so much more, so damned fast…
He tucked the cash back inside the paperback, keeping aside two twenties for himself. Geez. He had no choice. Ignoring his “up and coming young business man” disguise, he swung out of Tree in his Tatt Thug look—tats and scar out there for all to see, biker boots, worn, torn denims and a muscle shirt, with a small bag slung over one shoulder and stalked out of the park. This was a dangerous game he was playing.
He would offer Gibbons his services now, before he changed his mind.
Two blocks from committing himself to the dregs of mankind, the drug dealers that preyed on the weak, the sick, the gullible, Payton’s luck changed.
Passing by an alleyway, his attention was diverted by the sound of an altercation. Payton stopped short, peering down the dim alleyway. After a moment, his eyes adjusted to the limited light and he recognized Waights, the beat cop who’d put a pounding on him with a billy stick when he’d first arrived in WEN 2036. The idiot was shaking down a money runner, who had to be one of Gibbons’ guys—who else would it be in this neighborhood?
Was Waights crazy? Gibbons wouldn’t let this pass—no way! He’d hunt Waights down and slit his throat just for thinking about rolling one of his guys.
Still, Payton slipped into the shadows and watched with interest. The two were pretty evenly matched and Waights had worked himself into quite the sweat.
Payton glanced back, saw no one else was watching, and drew closer. Maybe he’d toss in with the money runner and get in good with Gibbons right from the start. Not his goal in life, but he’d made his choice to get Dom’s bail money and putting Waights out of his misery wasn’t the worst way to pass an afternoon—the guy was a menace.
Suddenly, Waights produced a blade from his pant leg and buried it up to its hilt into Gibbons’ runner. Payton scrambled back in horror, slamming into a brick wall, plastering himself against it. The runner looked down at the blade, snarled, pulled it free from his chest and in one swift motion, slashed it across Waights’ fat neck. Waights’ blood sprayed across the runner’s face, his lips drawn back in a gruesome grimace, his white teeth now dripping red with Waights’ pulsing blood. Payton vibrated with revulsion. The look on Waights’ face was…Payton couldn’t describe it. It was shocked, disbelieving, comical, and terrified, all laced with recognition and dread.
Then, as if in agreement, the two men pitched forward onto the cracked pavement and moved no more.
Payton blinked, frozen against the wall. Had this just happened? Had he just watched two men slice one another up? It had taken less than a minute.
He sagged away from the wall, gulping in air, swaying before taking an uncertain step forward, compelled to see if there might be evidence of life, knowing there was none. He waited for movement, for something to happen. The only sound was distant traffic.
Payton moved closer. Should he call the cops? Go to Gibbons and tell him what he’d just witnessed? Bring him his money? Bring him back here to see for himself?
Be smart and stay out of it and walk away?
He moved closer still, nudged the bag in question away from the spreading blood pool with the toe of his boot.
What about option six—take the money?
A shiver of recognition of a great and terrible idea ran through his body, right down to the ground. Who would know?
He glanced back again, scared now at what he might see. Nothing. No one was here, no one at the entrance. Could he slip the bag inside of his and walk out of here? If he was caught, could he sell the idea he was bringing the money back to Gibbons?
Before he risked his life, he should see how much money he’d be risking it for.
He squatted, unzipped the bag, and pulled out four plastic-wrapped bricks. Unwrapping one, he found it to be a brick of bills, hundreds of bills. Fifties and hundreds, well circulated. He looked toward the street again then back down at the block of cash in his shaking hand. Untraceable.
Before he’d even realized he’d made his decision, he let his own bag slip from his shoulder, unzipped it and stuffed the runner’s money-filled bag inside. On his feet, he sprinted to the end of the alleyway, took a cautious peek out. Insane! No one was here! No one.
He pulled his cap from the side pocket of his bag and yanked it over his head and headed uptown, toward Gibbons’ place. It was blocks away, plenty of time to discern if he was being followed. With his chin tucked against his chest, he walked rapidly up the street, glancing around often, but shielding the scarred side of his face when possible. Just before he was about to cross the street on the crossing signal, he darted into a smoke shop and waited by the door to see if anyone was behind him. No one showed.
After several minutes, the owner cleared his throat from behind him, obviously meant to prompt Payton to turn around, to buy something. But he couldn’t. If there were any inquiries, and there would be, Gibbons’ people would crawl all over this neighborhood in search of this cash. His scarred face would be easily remembered. He grunted, opened the door and stepped back out onto the street. He had to get back to Tree as quickly and quietly as possible and stay the hell up there.
It took him hours to make his way back to Tree. Hours of careful movement, not a step unplanned. He was certain no one would link him with what had happened to Waights and the runner. The missing money? It could be anyone.
Could he float the idea the cops had kept the money?
Brilliant!
He stopped by a payphone, dialed 911, reported two bodies and gave the closest cross streets before hanging up, wiping down the receiver and number buttons and hurrying away. There. That could throw Gibbons totally off if the cops arrived before his men did. How soon would they notice their guy was missing and start to search?
He’d soon find out.
Once up in his hidey-hole, Payton dared to breathe easier. It was hot up in Tree, with little m
ovement, the air still. The forest all around him was also unusually quiet, no sway of branches, no rustle of leaves, no snatches of passing conversations or laughter from park visitors. It was as if the entire forest knew what Payton had just done, what Payton had brought into their midst, and was holding its breath waiting to see his fate.
He made himself an instant coffee with cold water, the spoon making a heck of a racket that had him cringing as he stirred up the concoction. He chugged down the dreadful mixture for the caffeine benefits, then shivered, shook himself like a wet dog, unzipped his bag and unwrapped the bricks of cash before he lost his courage.
At first, he just stared, too afraid to disturb his bounty. It wasn’t too late to return the drug money to Gibbons. But if he took the bundle apart and counted it, he was committed.
Averting his eyes, he leaned back against Tree and looked out over the water, trying to concentrate, going over his options. But the blocks of cash were like radium, here on his pallet platform, and that radium was releasing wave upon wave of both possibilities and certain disaster.
What had he just done?
His eyes gravitated back to the cash. He reached out and touched one block. It was warm, heated by the sun, and dry. He lifted it, peeled the first elastic band off it. The elastic drifted to the pallet floor. Then off came the other elastics, one by one. Payton knew there was no going back. Remembering the shimmering Time Bore entrance, he laughed softly, fanning the money—a lot of that going around.
He’d started out today willing to take a stupid, ill-conceived chance in order to get Dom out of the trouble he’d put him in.
Now was the time to be smart about his new criminal life.
He began counting.
OF COURSE, the first thing he had to do was launder the money. No bank in the world would allow him to deposit forty-thousand dollars cash. So, he bought himself money orders at various establishments, made out to himself, in small amounts, four hundred dollars, two hundred and fifty dollars. Forty-five dollars. Then he deposited them, a few at a time, over the next several weeks into his own account at the bank. Consulting fees, he called them if asked. He was now passing himself off as an investment consultant, specializing in market share—whatever the hell that meant. It went over well, and he never elaborated.
He’d ordered what he needed to create two other personas through mail order, sent to a third name he’d created “just in case”. This was his “just in case”, arrived and ready to go. Three personas suddenly called onto the stage that was now his life. He needed to be able to go out in public, do a select set of actions, then bury that outrageous persona forever.
It took a few weeks to get the new disguises—one that allowed Payton to pass as a blond man with a mustache and soul patch just below his lower lip, now back in style. This would be his alter ego to “Up and Coming Young Businessman”. This was “Soul-patch Guy”. Then he created a short-term, “Two Week Guy” who was purposefully over the top with an obvious wig, outrageous clothes, and high-heeled boots. His intention was to hire an attorney to pay Dom’s bail.
He wouldn’t set one foot inside the cop shop or courthouse as one of his hard-built alter-egos. This was a one-shot deal. The attorney he approached lived and worked over on the north shore, had no ties to downtown that Payton could uncover, so was the perfect candidate. His name was Carruthers. He was expensive, but he asked no probing questions. He didn’t bat an eye when Payton swayed into his office on those ridiculous heels, accepting Payton’s wildly curly hair, outrageous lisp, and conduct, with the non-judgmental attitude of yes, this was bizarre, but this was business and Payton’s money was as good as the next client’s, paid in the form of a money order payable to Carruthers Inc.
Dom Derrick was out on bail within a week.
When Dom returned to the shelter, his reserved bed and special job would be gone, taken over by another as he had predicted. It couldn’t have been a surprise, but had to be a blow, nevertheless. There would be a note waiting for him, however, asking him to meet “a friend” at the Cambie Street soup kitchen for lunch at one.
When Dom entered the bright gray and yellow Cambie Street soup kitchen, he scanned the room, his gaze sliding right past Payton’s “Soul Patch Guy” disguise. Pleased, Payton waved him over. Mystified, Dom approached him cautiously.
Payton murmured, “Don’t freak out. It’s me.”
Dom’s eyes widened, and he blinked repeatedly in an effort to cover his shock. He glanced around, pulled out a seat and sat down.
Payton smiled back at him across the table. “Don’t you want a bowl of soup?”
“Oh. Yeah. Soup.” Dom stumbled back to his feet and got in line, holding a bowl. To his credit, he didn’t turn and look back at Payton, he just moved along with the rest, got his soup and sandwich and returned to the table, his expression closed, as if this were any other day.
Dipping the end of his tomato sandwich into his bowl, he flipped back his dreads, leaned in, bit into the soggy bread and mumbled. “You posted bail?”
“Yup.”
“How’d you do it?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“All right. What’s next?”
“You’re heading up Tree with me until I can get us a place.”
Dom’s eyes widened in surprise, but he focused on his soup, and kept on eating. “Our own place?”
“Yep. It’s been in the works for months. Harmony House threw a wrench into the works is all. Then you went and got yourself arrested.”
Dom smiled into his bowl. “Had a little help with that.”
Payton nodded regretfully between scoops of his own soup. It was bland today, or maybe he was too damned nervous to taste it.
“You do know I’ve got a court date? I will go to jail.”
“Dom Derrick is a homeless guy who has a court date. Conrad Joseph is in Personal Security with Michael Eggers Investment Consulting.”
Dom choked on his sandwich, dropping a slice of tomato into his soup with a splash.
“Oh, and Conrad Joseph shaves his head.”
Dom wiped his mouth, then at the wet splatters across his shirt, and was chuckling now. “Aw! Every day? Do I have to?”
After they’d eaten, they made their way to Payton’s Tree. Once Dom was up on the platform—it was a tight squeeze for sure—he expressed how impressed he was with Payton’s ingenuity. “Geez, kid. This is a freaking palace.”
Payton flushed, grateful for Dom’s—no, Conrad’s good opinion. “You’ll have to stop calling me kid. Practice with Michael, or Mike. I’m Michael Eggers now, and you’re Conrad Joseph. We can’t slip up, not even once when we’re out there.”
He pulled the plastic off his briefcase and brought out the stack of IDs and certifications he’d created for the both of them, enjoying Dom’s reaction.
“Geez, Pay… ah… I mean Mike! You’ve been busy.”
“I started months ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wasn’t sure I could pull it off, honestly. I’m as surprised as you at some of the stuff I’ve done.” He separated out the Conrad stuff and slid them across the platform toward his friend. “You have a birth certificate, a social insurance number. You’re trained in security work—here’s your accreditation and some letters of reference.”
Conrad read them over, then looked up at Mike with a grin. “Damn! I’m good!”
Mike laughed. “That’s why I hired you.”
“What’s our next step?”
“You shave your head.” Payton placed a pair of scissors, a razor and a can of shaving foam on the pallet between them. “We find ourselves an address, put down a deposit, first month’s rent, then get ourselves some furniture, some sort of presence. We’ll need a computer, access to the internet, and a printer. We’ll cater to exclusive clients. No one off the streets. Appointment only.”
“Mike. This is crazy. And I’ve been working on these dreads for five years.”
“You need t
o lose them—you’re too recognizable with them. I’m working out of the library for now, but we need roots somewhere. And you need a B.C. Service card and a gun.”
“Why not wings and a magic wand while we’re at it? No one’s going to give me a gun.”
“With enough money, they will.” Mike looked up at Conrad. “This is your challenge, Con. Get that license to operate a vehicle and another to own a gun, then get a gun. I’m not kidding, we’ll need it—you’ll need it. Where we’re going, we’ll need it.”
“Where are we going?”
“We’re going to play the market with the big boys, and we’re going to win—every time.”
“What? You have some kind of crystal ball now?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Trust me.” Payton pushed the razor closer. “I’m not kidding about the hair. It’s got to go. I’m thinking a gold earring in one ear, and a couple of suits to start you out. As soon as we can afford it, a gold tooth to flash when you threaten someone—in the nicest possible way, of course. Think FBI or CIA from old thriller movies. You’re a big guy, and we want you hiding in plain sight. That means you and I just had the last meal we’ll ever have in a soup kitchen. Dom Derrick and Payton Wisla are dead.”
Conrad flicked a handful of dreadlocks back over his broad shoulder regretfully, picked up the razor and turned it around slowly. He murmured, “In plain sight, huh?”
MIKE THOUGHT forty-thousand-dollars was a lot of money. Turns out, it was not. The bulk of the cash went to bailing out Conrad and setting up their new address. Damage deposit, first three months and last month’s rent, and Con’s new ride.
Their new clothes they picked out at Good Will stores, choosing carefully: Suits, shirts, sweaters, ties, shoes, overcoats necessary for the frequent rain. Conrad’s firearms licenses came easier than they’d anticipated. Conrad had to take a daylong course to get the firearms license, which proved to be a good test of the ID Mike had created. Conrad passed with flying colors. Purchasing the gun and holster drained the budget practically dry.
Cursed Apprentice (Earth Survives Book 2) Page 10