The Buffalo Job

by Mike Knowles

  The colour drained from Monica’s face as she realized that the only thing that was keeping her alive was convenience. It’s hard the first time you realize your life really is cheap.

  “Upstairs, please,” I said.

  It took twenty-five minutes for the pills to work. I tested the effects by putting the tip of a safety pin I found in the bedside drawer into the centre of the sole of Monica’s foot. She let out a dreamy whimper and then rolled over and began to snore loudly.

  The painkillers had started to kick in and I made it down the stairs without coming close to falling. I went through the first floor with a rag doused with the bleach and wiped every surface that even looked familiar. When I was done, I poured the rest of the bleach into a bucket I found under the sink. I dropped the pistol I took off the cop into the bucket and pushed it into the back of the cupboard with the toe of my shoe. The police issue gun was a better firearm than the revolver Ilir picked up, but it was a cop’s gun and that made it stupid to carry. With a wounded cop in the hospital, the rest of the force would be in on the manhunt. Any ballistic evidence would just be a trail that could be followed. The gun had to go.

  I was weak and tired — the last of the adrenalin in my system was waning. I opened the fridge with the rag and found what I expected a mother of two teenage boys to have — plenty of food. My stomach churned at the sight of the food, but I ignored it and reached for a two-litre bottle of Coke. I needed calories more than I needed nutrients and the sugary drink was an easy way to get them in. I put the bottle in the sink and used the cloth to open the cupboards. I found a bag of sugar in a lower cabinet and I put as much as I could into the three-quarter-full bottle. I took a deep breath and then brought the bottle up to my lips. The liquid was so sweet that it made me wince, but I took a deeper second gulp and then a bigger third.

  The sun had begun to exit and the light outside was no longer as intense as it had once been. I slid behind the wheel of Monica’s Subaru and took two more swigs from the bottle. I felt a sudden urge to retch, but I kept the contents of my stomach where they were. Behind the house, a dark column of smoke was still climbing like a vine. The neighbourhood smelled of charred plastic and I could see that every home around me had closed their windows. Soon, someone would bang on Monica’s door. After that, they would call the police, or the fire department. Let them call whoever they wanted to; whoever showed up would just bang on the door, too. Monica wasn’t going to answer, not tonight anyway. By the time she woke up to face the neighbours, I would be across the border.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Keeping the Subaru at the speed limit, I drove north towards the safe house. The house was not the one we had brought Dickens to — this house was closer to the border. The safe house was another spot that Miles had visited with the real estate agent. It was as good as the first in every way, except for the fact that it lacked a garage. I parked the Subaru behind a rusted Geo Tracker two streets away from the house, wiped the wheel and doors with a rag I had taken from the house, and then stashed the keys in the driver side wheel well. The neighbourhood was near a community college and the realtor had told Miles that most of the homes were rentals. That fact, along with the poor condition of the house, scared off a lot of potential buyers. The place had been on the market for eight months and there had not even been an offer. Parking two streets over wasn’t a necessity — there was plenty of parking closer to the safe house. I didn’t even have to park right behind the Geo. On this particular street there were plenty of empty curbs. The summer month was a tranquilizer for the student housing market, making tenants sparse. But the Geo’s presence on the side street gave me a way to obscure the front plate of the Subaru. The tight parking spot would slow down anyone looking for a particular arrangement of letters and numbers. The distance from the safe house was another layer that would bog down anyone on my trail even more. The numerous vacant rentals would all have to be searched before the police expanded their search to other streets. The layers of obfuscation and misdirection would buy me more than enough time to get to the border. I walked away from the car, pretending to belong on the street. I was glad no one was around; the only way I would blend in is if there was a zombie parade set to walk through the suburbs.

  I crossed through two unfenced backyards and stepped onto a street running parallel to the one I had just been on. The homes in front of me had erected large wooden fences to keep animals in and people out. I went left until I saw a property without a fence that I could walk through to the street I wanted.

  The safe house was dark from the street and the curtains on the windows were drawn. I crossed the street and went down the concrete path that ran along the side to the yard. The grass in the backyard was dead and yellow where it wasn’t just dirt; the once-green stalks crunched like hay under my feet.

  I approached the back door ready to knock; it opened before my knuckles even started their descent.

  “I heard you weren’t coming back,” Carl said.

  “I got held up,” I said.

  The driver backed up enough to let me in and I shut the door behind me. On the kitchen table were open food containers and torn, grease-stained paper bags. Food was everywhere. We had stocked the house with food, water, and a laptop with a wireless card so that we could monitor the media. The curtains in the living room were drawn and the lights had been left off. None of the fading sunlight made it in from outside. Ilir sat on the floor; the laptop was on his knees. He only noticed me when the news went to commercial and he was able to tear his eyes away from the screen.

  “Wilson! Holy shit. I heard you weren’t coming back.”

  Same rumour; the two hearing it meant Miles was spreading it. “There was traffic,” I said. “What has the news been saying?”

  “Saying?” he said. “They’re saying everything is fucked up. There’s a manhunt going on for you right now. That guy you shot is in critical condition.”

  “Not dead, though,” I said.

  Ilir shook his head. “But there was something about injuries to an officer.”

  “Just his hands,” I said. I looked around the room. “Where’s Miles?”

  “In the bathroom,” Ilir said. “Guy’s all cool and shit until the moment the job ends. Then he’s got — what did he call it? A nervous bowel.”

  “Must have been something I ate,” Miles said.

  I turned and saw the con man coming down the stairs. The carpet had been torn up in some kind of first phase of renovation and no one had ever begun phase two. Miles was still in his suit. On the job, he had kept two buttons fastened. Off the job, the jacket was open, exposing the butt of the revolver tucked into his belt. He looked like he was one of Danny Ocean’s guys. Sinatra, not Clooney. He stopped on the unfinished landing and looked me over.

  “I thought you weren’t going to make it back.”

  “So I heard.”

  “Hey,” he said, holding his hands up. “You saw how bad it got out there. Going back was not in the game plan. Hell, a lot of stuff wasn’t in the game plan.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “So no hard feelings?”

  I shook my head.

  “You look like shit,” Miles said with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Still no hard feelings?”

  I ignored the joke and drank the rest of the soda from the bottle; the last mouthful was all settled sugar and it took a few seconds for it all to migrate from the bottle to my mouth. I set the empty container down on a plastic milk cart that was doubling as a coffee table. “Where is it?”

  Everyone’s eyes shifted in the same direction. Eight million dollars was leaning against the uncarpeted stairs. Ilir stayed on the floor with his laptop; it was Carl who moved for the case. He picked it up off the floor and held it out for me to take. I walked over and took the handle with my right hand and walked into the kitchen. I put the case down on the small section of counter space
next to the vacant slot where a fridge belonged. The buckles shot back from the hinge like a rattlesnake lunging at easy prey. Inside the thinly lined case was a small musical instrument. The glossy surface of the dark wood had weathered over two centuries with grace. There were imperfections here and there from years of surely almost daily use, but they were the kinds of blemishes that made something more beautiful rather than less. I gave the violin a once-over and then took a step back to let the light from the exposed bulb bathe the surface. I tilted the instrument forward and the light stabbed into the openings that perforated the surface. Just inside one of the curved holes I saw the inscription.

  Antonus Stradivarius Cremonensis Faciebat Anno 1837

  I turned the violin in my hand and looked at the back of the instrument. The lines in the wood rose and fell in tight bunches like the sky in Van Gogh’s Starry Night. The glossy varnish on the back of the instrument was thick enough to produce my reflection. My battered face reflected in the wood took something away from the calculated beauty of the violin. I moved away from the light and watched my face fade from the surface of the Stradivarius.

  I took hold of the counter with my one good hand and placed the violin back into the case. Under my feet, the floor felt suddenly unsteady. I guided myself around the kitchen, using the counters for support, until I was close enough to cross to one of the folding chairs we had brought in. I groped through the wrappers and containers on the table until I found an unopened protein bar. I got it open with my teeth and took a huge bite of the bar. I was chewing loudly when Carl sat down.

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “Same as it ever was. The police can have their manhunt, but the world will still march on. We just have to be sure to be in the crowd instead of on the parade route.”

  The protein bar went down my dry throat slowly, but the sustenance felt good. The painkiller I ate next felt better.

  “They won’t be watching the border,” I said. “And if I’m wrong and they are — tonight there will be a hell of a lot to look at.” There was a Bills pre-season game starting at seven and when it was over, the border would be swamped with people going back to their NFL-less cities in Canada. “Dressed in jerseys and hats, the four of us will blend in with every other car full of men.”

  “How bad are you hurt?” Carl asked. “Ilir said there were reports that one of the robbers was shot.”

  “Caught one in the shoulder,” I said. “But the bullet is out and I’m stitched up.” I saw no reason to mention the second bullet wound. “We’re fine coming back from a football game. No one is going to look twice at a guy passed out in the back seat.”

  “Who took the bullet out?” Miles asked from the door.

  “I found someone to do it for me.”

  “While being chased by the police?” Miles didn’t try to hide his skepticism.

  “Why were the police there?” I asked.

  “Turns out,” Miles said, “We weren’t the only ones interested in the violin. There was a VIP scheduled to make an appearance. A senator who is a huge David Lind fan, and who also happens to be on the Homeland Security Committee, was scheduled to make an appearance. The cops were there setting up security for the event. The crowd ran right into them.”

  I thought back to the guest list we had stolen from Dickens. There had been two vacant spots that I had wrongly assumed were for the buyer and his representative. I cursed my stupidity and took another bite of the protein bar. “What happened on the floor?”

  “I led the security detail up to the violinist and they were making the hand-off when someone in a mask came out of the wings. He threatened the guards with all kinds of violence unless they turned over the case. They handed it to him and he fired into the ceiling a few times. Everyone hit the deck and the masked man jumped into the orchestra pit. Everyone down there ran for the doors and the gunman disappeared in the commotion.”

  “Just like that,” I said.

  “Just like that,” Miles said.

  “The cops only reported one man getting away in the commotion. There was nothing about Dickens or his assistant,” Carl said.

  “Nothing yet, anyway,” Ilir called from the living room.

  “So what happened to the gunman?” I asked.

  “A lot of questions today,” Miles said.

  I took another bite of the protein bar. “You have something to say, Miles?”

  “I already said it. Who patched you up?”

  “Your theory is the cops shot me, arrested me, patched me up, turned me, and sent me back here for you three in under four hours?”

  “You said it, not me,” Miles said.

  From the uncomfortable looks on the faces of Carl and Ilir, who had come in from the living room, I could see that this notion wasn’t new to anyone. Miles had been spinning the same theory to the other men in my absence. I wasted no time pulling my shirt off. The gauze covering the wound was coloured red where the blood had wormed its way through. I pulled it off and turned my shoulder for the two men to see.

  “If I got pinched, don’t you think the medical care would have looked better than this?”

  “Jesus,” Carl said. “What the hell happened to you? It looks like a dog chewed on it.” Then his eyes saw the burns. “Did you take another in the side, too?”

  “It was a through-and-through, but it was a bleeder.”

  “Why is it all burned?” Ilir asked.

  “Because,” Carl said, “he burned it closed to stop the bleeding.”

  I pulled my shirt over my good shoulder. “The cops do a lot of that these days, Miles?”

  The con man was uncharacteristically quiet.

  It was my turn to ask a question. “Why aren’t you already packed up? The game is starting in half an hour.”

  “With the news about the senator and the cop you shot, we figured there might be roadblocks set up. We thought it was best to sit things out here until the game ends.”

  I looked at Ilir, “The news mention roadblocks?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then we should go. We’re more likely to get noticed squatting in a vacant property than at a game with tens of thousands of drunken, rowdy people.”

  “Makes sense,” Ilir said.

  Miles nodded.

  “You sure you can travel?” Carl asked. “You took two bullets today. You can’t see any light from the street, so we should be safe here for a few more hours.”

  I didn’t answer Carl. I was preoccupied with the ceiling. Above the sink, the drywall had been opened up by the demo crew. Jutting out from the floorboards of the second floor was an open section of PVC pipe. Miles had been in the bathroom upstairs with nervous bowel since he got back. That was his story; the pipes told another. Their story said there was no water upstairs.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  “Get your stuff, we’re going,” I said. Miles and Ilir nodded and went through the doorway to get their things. I got a hand on Carl before he was out of reach.

  “How many times has Miles been to the bathroom?”

  “I don’t know,” Carl said. “A couple, I guess.”

  I nodded to the empty pipe in the ceiling. “You think after a few trips he might have noticed there was no water up there?”

  Carl looked at the pipe. “Shit,” he said.

  “The opposite. Go up there and check it out. I’ll keep an eye on Miles.”

  Carl nodded and walked out of the kitchen. I heard the stairs creak when he put weight on them and then Miles said, “Where are you going?”

  “Gotta go before we leave,” Carl said. The creaks told me that he hadn’t stopped climbing as he said it.

  I went into my pocket and pulled out my phone. Not the burner I got for the job — my phone. I hadn’t thought about it after the bullets tore into me — another careless mistake. I powered up the phone and saw th
at there were two messages. One was from Ox, the other from a number I didn’t recognize. I chose the latter and heard a voice with a British accent — Mr. Menace.

  Mr. Wilson. Sorry about the delay, but the phones turned out to be trickier than I had thought they would be. I did as you told me and checked the black Samsung first. There were only a few calls made in the last couple of days and the numbers are all to phones across the border in Canada. I checked the other two cells and came up with something. The white cell has been active the last few days. Loads of calls. Several to a few Buffalo numbers. I tried tracing the numbers, but they belong to pre-paid cell phones. So I’m afraid it’s a dead end. The other cell had only calls to one number. A residential address in Ontario. The package was mailed this afternoon. Cheers.

  I swore under my breath. I had been wrong about Ilir and his phone like I had been wrong about the guest list. The white phone belonged to Miles. He had been calling local numbers and we had been hit by local Albanians.

  I walked into the doorway. Miles was looking up the stairs while Ilir was busy putting the laptop and its cords into a backpack. When Ilir had the bag on his shoulders, I said, “Ilir, check out front.”

  “What? Why?” Miles said. “What is going on?”

  I ignored Miles. Ilir didn’t move; he stood in the middle of the living room looking with furrowed brows first at Miles and then at me. He couldn’t read anything on either of our faces.

  I put some mean into my voice. “Check out front. Tell me if you see anything move. I mean anything.”

  The authoritative tone worked on the kid. “Okay, man. Okay.”

  “Wilson, what is going on?”

  I turned my back on Miles and walked into the kitchen. Miles followed a few seconds behind.

  “Nothing out front,” Ilir called.