Glass Shore

by Stefan Jackson

  “So he could wake up and tell the police about us?”

  I stop the mot. I reverse the vehicle.

  I get out of the mot. I open the trunk. I pick up Barry and put him inside. I get back into the mot.

  We drive on.

  Holding the Strummer she asks, “How do I use this?”

  “The orange button on the right side of the grip activates the pulse. It takes a second to go green. The trigger will literally become green in color. Then just pull the trigger. It fires a three-ounce pellet that can put a normal man on the ground like spilled milk.”

  “But you’re not normal.”

  “I’m not normal.”

  “Excellent.”

  Still, the damned pellet stung like hell. But of course I don’t complain. Why break my client’s belief that I’m nigh on invincible.

  We exit the parking lot without incident. Turn left and ease into the north flow of CPW. I see three police units parked outside of the Bombay Plaza and two units hovering above at twelve meters. The cops don’t mark my passage as a big event and I don’t give them any reason too.

  “So who used to own this and what’s it called? Nikki asks as she studies the weapon.

  “The weapon is a Strummer V, courtesy of a recovery agent named Barry Clouts. Here’s how I figure it. Anton tips Barry to us for a cut of the reward. The guy doesn’t want to confront us directly, so he follows our mot. He put the cops on us. Yet, I don’t believe he told them about the mot. That was his ace in the hole in case, as we did, we elude the cops at the Plaza. So he stakes out the mot in the garage. And thought he could take us down.”

  “So with Anton’s brain scrambled and this guy in the trunk, we should be free of tags.” Nikki says.

  I ran it through my mind for a moment, checking the rearview monitor all the time. “Yeah. We should be clear.”

  “So where we going now?”

  “Don’t know.”

  The cops didn’t cover the stairs or the garage. Why? I take a right on the next avenue, heading for the outer loop.

  “We’re going to Brooklyn. I know someone we can trust.”

  “Good by me.” Nikki lights a cigarette. “Who is it?”

  “Lynch Alstor, retired military like me. We served together in another lifetime. These days he’s a bodyguard for Malcolm Space. Yeah, the one and the same multi-billionaire.”

  “Nice.” She takes a long pull of her cigarette.

  Silence: each in our own world as we look at the city.

  I call up my address book and drag Lynch’s address into the travel bin. I press the walking man icon. Destination accepted flashes on the dashboard then blinks away.

  Nikki turns on the radio. A pulsing bass and drum riff fills the cabin as a mechanized horn sits on the rhythm as the girls sing, “You’re the love rockin’ me,” over and over, their vocals out-fitted with numerous filters and enhancements.

  10

  We stare at the Statue of Liberty as we zip over the Brooklyn Bridge. Brooklyn has no mammoth mega-structures of glass and metal like the city. Brooklyn is the headquarters of the mighty-mighty rich. The borough is home for one hundred and six families, the most powerful families on Earth. These people with true, hard money maintain a watchful eye on their brilliant investment, the city of Manhattan.

  My mot slows as we approach the checkpoint. Nikki and I look straight ahead. We see the scanner’s red eye glow bright then dim and we receive a green light. Beneath the green light, the greeting: Welcome to Brooklyn – Home of the Strong. The mot regains speed as we glide down Cadman Plaza loop.

  “I have contacts. How are you cheating the eye scans?” Nikki asks.

  “Military enhancements,”

  I punch up Lynch’s number then tap the talk icon on the dashboard. The phone rings twice before I catch his answering machine.

  “This is Lynch. Leave a message.”

  “Lynch. Apollo.”

  Suddenly Lynch’s face appears on the windshield. “Yo, Apollo. Long time, bro. Talk to me.”

  “In the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by. Got a friend with me.”

  “Yeah I see … good. Good. I could use the company.”

  “I’ll be there in five.”

  “Right.”

  He hangs up.

  “That was a weird conversation.” Nikki says.

  “Yeah, he’s distracted.” I say. And, thinking about it, Lynch’s demeanor distracts me.

  “You still think it’s safe over there?”

  “Reading minds isn’t polite.” I say. “I don’t believe we’re his problem. We’re not the only fugitives in the city. There’s no reason for him to suspect us of anything.”

  “When was the last time you called him?”

  “It’s been awhile.”

  “And you don’t think he finds a call out of the blue a bit … intriguing?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure he does.”

  “So what’s our story?”

  “Damn woman, slow down.” Sometimes being with Nikki is like hanging out with the business end of a chainsaw.

  It takes a moment before a cover story comes to mind. It’s a true case that continues to pay for my smooth lifestyle. “We tell him you’re hiding from your mob husband.”

  “Okay, I can easily relate to that.”

  “Oh yeah?” I look into her beautiful brown eyes.

  She doesn’t blink. “Yeah, but this is your story, not mine. So please continue.”

  I nod. “You have proof of his disturbing fetishes. The proof is a thirty-four minute disc, but this disc was culled from hours of footage.”

  “I like this, keep going.”

  “You told your gangster husband that you wanted a divorce and not to fight you on it. You took both houses, and you want to get paid without a fuss or the sick disc comes out.”

  “Do detail the fetishes,” Nikki says with a fat smile.

  “I’ll give you subjects and you fill in the blanks. Black dog. Potbelly pig. Tools.”

  “Tools?”

  “Your mob husband would jerk off using pliers, barbecue tongs, forceps, shall I continue?”

  “Who made this disc? Who held the camera is the question?”

  “Me. I followed his ass around for about three weeks.”

  Nikki shakes her head and laughs with glee.

  “Of course the gangster husband said he would kill you,” I continue. “That’s when you tell him you hired someone that’s keeping the disc safe. Now my story is, I’m coming to Lynch for a bit of shop talk about this case.”

  “I like this story. How’d you come up with it so quickly?”

  “It’s inspired from true events. No names: client confidentiality and all that jazz.”

  “Can you tell me if the mob wife is still alive?”

  “Yep. Alive and kicking.”

  “And the husband?”

  “He died of natural causes before the divorce was even an issue.”

  “Right. And you had nothing to do with that.”

  “Not a thing. Not at all.”

  She nods, believing me. “I guess the fetish disc is useless.”

  “No sweetheart, the disc is very vital. Family pride. People love to talk about the dead. The gangster guy and the wife were married for fourteen years and never had children, so now you understand her vitriol. And this mobster has seven brothers. His parents are still alive. His grandparents are still breathing. Memory is all that you leave behind. At lot of wrongs are often forgiven but sexual deviance never is. Once stained, forever marked and the family has to shoulder that burden. People will kill to preserve their image. And the image of a man of honor, influence and strength, a man that made his family’s name synonymous with power is worth any price to keep intact.”

  Nikki nods. “So the ex-wife is still holding the secret over the mobster family. Still getting paid to stay quiet.”

  “Yep. But only one brother knows the secret, you know more than the family. And I receive a monthly check to kee
p the disc locked away. To be released if any suspicious harm comes to the ex-wife.”

  “Such drama.”

  “Easy money as far as I’m concerned.”

  #

  The neighborhood is quiet. I park under a tall elm tree.

  We step out of the mot and into a brisk wind. The sky is soft blue, cloudless and alive with silent traffic. We walk down the sidewalk without being molested by personals. I feel a great peace of mind, now free of advertising.

  We stop and stand before an outsized red brick townhouse, looking up at the towering French doors made of, I believe, Spanish cedar, with small onyx window and trim. We step up the clean marble steps. Standing on the top landing, Nikki runs her hand along the trim of the doors, enjoying the feel of the wood.

  “Real wood. Impressive,” she says.

  “I understand this home is a job perk.”

  “Some people…”

  I push a small black marbled button inset in the red brick.

  Lynch opens the door before I return my hand to my coat pocket. I had forgotten how big a man Lynch is. He is a tall brother, better than two meters, and thick like a slice of mountain. He has short-cropped hair, a smooth cut face and stern lips. No tattoos, body mods or jewelry. He appears calm but his eyes betray a frantic mindset. Something is out of square with Lynch Alstor; that’s for damn sure. He invites us into his home with little more than a polite smile and distracted greeting. Still, I step back, open right palm, our hands come together in a semi-grasp, release, then knuckles-to-knuckles, fists to chests. Lynch performs the ceremony as habit, with no emotion. Yet, he isn’t quite dead, he smiles as Nikki’s ass moves into the next room. She’s got a sweet ass.

  “So what’s up, Lynch?” I ask.

  “What’s up with you?” he counters. “It’s been a long time. What suddenly brings you to the neighborhood?”

  “Need a safe house while we figure things out,” I say workman-like.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So what’s her story?” Lynch says with a hush as he nods toward Nikki.

  “She’s under my protection. Her husband is connected and has threatened her life.”

  “Damn. No matter how pretty they are, somebody is tired of them.”

  “True enough.”

  We exit the large foyer and enter the living room. The room has blonde hardwood floors and high ceilings. Expansive bay windows offer an opulent view of the bustling East river, the hectic Kid’s Island play park, former Governor’s Island. The Statue of Liberty is dwarfed, ant-like, by the massive energized city of glass. Nikki absently sets her messenger bag on the large black sofa as she walks over to the windows. She stands still, looking at Manhattan. Even from here, way across the room, I can see brilliant rainbows and colored flecks flutter and dance about the twin faceted crystal spires of lower Manhattan. The memorial is amongst the tallest structures in the city and the refractive sunlight off the clean crystal sprinkles colors over the city. Unlike the view from within the city, this very handsome panoramic phenomenon is courtesy of not only the density and irregular angles of the glass structures, but also the constant condensation from old hydrogen fuel cells, and the bright blast of the late afternoon sun.

  “This is very tony, Lynch. Love the view,” I say.

  “So do I,” he replies.

  “It’s nice, real nice,” Nikki says without looking at us.

  The furnishings inside Lynch’s home are sparse and efficient, all wood items of retro euro-mod design. On a table by the entry to the kitchen I see his laptop is open. He’s checking a personals page.

  The sound is near muted but I can still hear the amazing speaking voice of John Terry. His baritone elegance is easy on the ears yet commands your attention. His voice flows from small monitor above the petite yet well-stocked wet bar as he narrates the infamous ninety-four second vid of Thomas Forrestt, the first and only man to walk on the Glass Shore.

  “Puget Sound. July fifteenth, two thousand and sixty-two, the murderous bullwhip crack shattered the sound barrier. In that instant planes, birds, trees, flesh, bone, rock, fish, metal, concrete, dirt, candy and love – all things had become undone. In that instant sand was pounded and melted to perfection. Vitrified. Super-cooled. In that instant sand was turned to miles of solid, smooth crystal shoreline.”

  Upon the monitor is a barefooted man walking over a sheet of smooth virgin glass. Each crunchy step of the walking man cracks the blue-green glass in a spider web pattern beneath his feet. His feet are cut with each step he takes. Bloody footprints upon the cracked glass stretch into the distance. The sea rushes in and away as glass splinters under the feet of purpose, the feet that seem oblivious to pain. A faint and familiar hum rises in the background, slow and swelling into the roar of helicopter rotors. The scene becomes frantic, as bloody feet smash upon the wet and pristine crystal shore. Then all is black.

  The scene replays, obviously on a loop. This video has been declared illegal and possession carries a heavy fine, but only in America. The rest of the world has no problem with the video. It’s on permanent display in the Louvre. Thomas Forrestt, who is a very old man these days, continues to elude American authorities.

  Art is anything you can get away with.

  Lynch walks over to a white stone pedestal and opens a small drawer. He then pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He offers one to Nikki. She accepts the smoke. He lights her cigarette then his own.

  “I like what you’ve done with the place,” Nikki says.

  “Danke.”

  I take the window of opportunity offered.

  “Say Lynch, is your garage free? I need to check out my mot.”

  “Yeah. It’s roomy and clean. Your mot got a knock in the trunk or engine? I ain’t got no tools for engine troubles.”

  “Problem’s in the trunk.”

  “Need help?”

  “No. I’m solid.”

  “Tools for trunk problems are in the bottom drawer of the red cabinet. I’ll open the garage door for ya.”

  “Thanks.”

  Lynch shows me to the garage entrance. He pushes a small silver button on the wall.

  11

  I enter the garage and watch the large metal door slide into its housing. On my right, neat rats scurry in a well-kept glass enclosure. Lynch has pet rats. Learn something new every day.

  I stand next to Lynch’s mot. He owns a brand new, low profile, iridescent maroon Cadillac named, The City. It’s a sweet mot. It’s even got tail fins.

  I tap the yellow button on my car remote. A moment later my mot hovers into the garage and comes to rest next to Lynch’s Cadillac.

  The garage door zips closed.

  I walk toward the rear of my mot and pop the trunk with the remote. I ready myself for Barry to make his move but no sudden attack, or lunge to escape. No shouts, screams or moans. Just silence. I look into the trunk with more than mere concern. Had I killed the man when I punched him in the face? Sometimes I forget my own strength. There’s a lot of blood in the trunk. The recovery agent’s face is busted and bloody. His nose is broken and his right cheek is a breath away from a sloppy collapse, so much so that his right eye does not set right in the socket. His upper right lip is ripped back, exposing smashed gum and broken teeth. Blood and snot bubbles dot the human face that is now a bad Dali landscape.

  I study the movement of his chest, he’s breathing. I look around the garage. I don’t know what I’m looking for. I guess I’m looking for something that will fix this.

  “Damn!” I say as I slap the side of my mot.

  A heartbeat later Lynch and Nikki rush into the garage.

  “Yo! What up, Apollo? What was that noise? Everything cool? ” Lynch says as he takes three big steps to me.

  “No, not cool. Looks like I don’t have to worry about that knock in my trunk no more,” I reply.

  Lynch and Nikki look into the trunk. Nikki turns away. Lynch just nods, inspecting my work with understanding.

&nb
sp; “Never strike in anger.” Lynch states. “At least he’s still alive.”

  “Yeah.” I say like a dummy.

  Nikki torches a cigarette. “So you did that with one punch?” she asks between puffs.

  I meet her eyes. “Yeah.”

  “What did he do?” Lynch asks.

  “He hit me with a Strummer V.”

  “So,” Lynch replies.

  “So the damn thing hurt and it pissed me off so I broke his face.”

  “Never strike in anger.”

  “I know the first rule, Lynch.”

  “You guys have rules?” asks Nikki the snark.

  “Yeah, and right about now I’m holding tight to rule one. You read me,” I hiss.

  She gives me the finger and smokes.

  I send her an air kiss.

  Lynch runs his forefinger along the bounty hunter’s right forearm, his finger stops midway. We can see the pellet.

  “That is linked to local and federal authorities.” I inform Nikki, answering the question before it’s asked. “It’s a tracking unit. It will signal the cops the moment he dies.”

  “Well, we can remove the pellet and insert the seed into one of my rats. Then release that rat in the city,” Lynch offers.

  “So that’s what they’re for,” I say.

  “Okay, that’s freaking me out. You’ve done this type of thing a lot?” Nikki asks.

  “Yes,” Lynch answers with flat sigh.

  “What happens to the rest of the body?” she presses.

  “It’s disposed of,” he says.

  “How?”

  “It surgical and messy. You don’t want details,” Lynch ends the conversation.

  Nikki shakes her head with clear understanding. She smokes her cigarette and paces about the garage.

  “It’s an option,” I say. Yet, I’m thinking that if I leave now I can dump the body in the boondocks while it’s still alive.

  “Is this a dolly?” Nikki asks as she points to a flat platform hanging on the near wall of the garage.

  “Yeah. I use it to move plants and stuff.”

  “We’re gonna use it now for this problem,” she states and removes it from the hook. She walks into open space and sets the thin platform on the floor. She inspects the handle and finds a recessed latch.