“Please.”
The woman slid past Ken, their knees rubbing. She gave his a quick smile, unfolded a newspaper, and began reading. The large wedding ring on her finger closed the door on any further conversation. As the glint of the large diamond faded with the movement of her hand Ken was startled to see his picture on the front page of the paper. A large one. The moustache and very dark hair of his disguise masked the resemblance somewhat. Still, he felt trapped on the moving train and decided he had made a huge mistake. Getting up from his seat, Ken thought it was wise to lock himself in his berth until the train arrived at its next stop and transfer to a less public means of transportation.
Ken’s respiration increased as he latched the door to his berth, fitfully trying to sleep before the train reached Sault Saint Marie, Ontario. He tried to read, but couldn’t take his eyes off the door, imagining it bursting open and two large policemen pointing guns at him. Ken wasn’t sure if he was safer in the berth or hiding in an isolated part of the train, so if someone did call the police and they stopped the train he could jump out between cars. He decided nobody had gotten a clear look at him and he should remain in the room. The passing footsteps and voices were his only contact with the outside world for the eight hours before they reached Sault Saint Marie. The announcement of the stop found Ken already packed. He searched the room several times and wiped down everything to eliminate fingerprints. As well, he shook out the sheets and washed the floor to remove any hair, stuffing the dirty paper towel in a plastic bag and taking them with him rather than throwing them in the garbage.
As the train moved towards the station Ken watched out the window. There was no large police presence and none of the people standing on the platform looked like they could be undercover police. Ken decided to err on the side of caution and slip out the side of the train opposite the station. He first looked out a window on that side of the train to see if there was anybody watching. The sidetracks looked deserted so Ken climbed down the metal stairs, retrieved his small suitcase from the top of the stairs and walked along the train until he was well clear of the station. He climbed under the train and walked down a narrow street filled with small warehouses and industrial businesses that catered to the railway industry. Looking behind him he saw nobody around so stopped at a pay phone and called a taxi, resisting using his cellphone, in the unlikely event the police were monitoring its use.
Better very safe than sorry.
The cab arrived a few minutes later and Ken settled into the back seat.
“Where to?”
Ken noticed the paper folded in the front seat of the taxi. He decided to get dropped off at a spot where there were plenty of routes of escape. “The big shopping centre, please.”
“Sure, Mack.”
Ken pulled down his hat and pretended he was resting. The ride was short. Ken paid in cash and walked into the shopping centre. It was quiet, so Ken took a few minutes to study a map of the area. He knew he must cross the border into the United States to relieve some of the pressure, but was certain the border staff were watching for him, so he needed a safe cover to help him get across. In the reflection in a hardware store window his fake moustache was holding on quite well. In the same reflection Ken saw a charity thrift store across the street. He looked again at the display in the hardware store, studying the fishing regulation poster in the window beside a display of rods and reels. He decided crossing the border into the United States was the last major hurdle to freedom, so he decided to go the extra mile to avoid prison. Extreme caution was in order as he walked into the thrift store and started browsing through the men’s clothes, grabbing an old pair of blue jeans and a plaid shirt. After tossing them in a basket he went to the footwear area and selected a pair of worn work boots, a belt, and some wool socks. They joined the other clothes in the basket. Next, Ken browsed through the sporting goods area. He inspected fishing rods and reels and selected the best ones along with an assortment of lures and fishing accessories. To complete the look he snapped up a fishing vest and a pair of heavy-duty pliers sitting in a bin in the tool section.
Ken paid for the items and walked down the street, avoiding direct contact with others passing by until he spotted what he was looking for, a low-end used car lot. He stepped into an alley and sorted through his identifications, pulling out the only Ontario driver’s licence he had and tucked it in his pocket with a credit card and a passport with the same name. Crossing the street, Ken walked onto the car lot and started peering in the windows of the lower priced vehicles. The only sales person on the lot was a heavy man sipping coffee as he leaned on the doorframe of the rusty trailer that served as an office. The man was eyeing up whether it was worth his while to trudge down the four steps to talk to Ken. Ken spotted the ideal vehicle, an older, small pickup truck with balding tires and a scratched up box that showed it had seen plenty of use. Around the fenders were bubbles of rust that had been recently painted over. The faded price tag in the front window of the truck indicated it had been reduced from one thousand dollars to six hundred and fifty for a “quick sale.” Ken heard the salesman approaching by the sound of dragging feet.
“Good looking vehicle,” slurred the salesman.
“Not bad,” responded Ken. “How many owners?”
“Just one.”
Ken had little interest in the background of the vehicle but had to play the part. “Can we start her up? Want to see how she sounds.”
“Keys in it. Help yourself.” The salesman spat tobacco on the ground.
Ken sat in the truck and turned the ignition. The salesman stood beside the driver’s door blocking Ken’s view of the puff of blue smoke that came from the exhaust pipe. Even so, Ken caught a glimpse of it in the rear view mirror. It meant nothing to Ken. In fact, it was so much the better for his plan.
“Mind if I take it around the block…Mr.?”
“Corky, Corky Singleton. Have at it.” Ken never introduced himself. The less face-to-face contact the better. Corky leaned his ample girth against an overpriced convertible and continued to drink his coffee out of a stained cup.
Ken went around the block several times to give the impression that he was carefully checking out the vehicle. He watched the temperature gauge and noticed it stayed low, so he was quite confident that the truck would serve his purpose. He turned the truck into the car lot and pulled up to the office rather than returning it to the original parking spot. He got out and walked around the vehicle.
“You sure this thing will get me to the fishin holes and back.”
“Hell yeah, we give a thirty day guarantee with all of our vehicles. Shall I write it up?”
“I don’t know. What’s your best price?”
“Well…sorry I didn’t catch your name.”
Ken thought back to his Ontario driver’s licence. “Martin Kincaid.”
“Well, Martin. I can let you have it for six hundred even, and I ain’t making a dime.”
Ken waited the appropriate amount of time then pointed at the greasy-spoon restaurant across the road. “Tell you what Corky. If you can have it written up and licenced for me by the time I get back from breakfast I will give you six-seventy-five. Those fish ain’t gonna wait all day.”
“Done, and how are ya gonna pay?”
Ken handed over seven hundred dollars cash. “Do you take these?”
“Sure, but there is a five percent administration fee.” Corky was squeezing Ken, but Ken was more interested in getting on the road than quibbling over a few dollars.
“Done.” Ken shook Corky’s grimy hand. “By the way, do you know any good fishing holes just across the border?”
“Sure, my dad and I would go regularly to the Black River outside of Moran, Michigan. We found this hole about two hundred feet up from the footbridge. Everybody there fished for trout down river because the hike is fairly steep in the other direction. Only a few locals know about it. Park in the small campground. They have real toilets.”
“Thanks.”
Ken tossed his fishing gear into the back of the truck. “Keep an eye on these, will you?”
“Sure, everything’ll be fine.”
Ken ate half of the worst breakfast of his life and returned to the car lot an hour later. As promised the paperwork was ready. Corky was puffing as he bent over to attach the rear licence plate.
“All set.” Corky pulled a clipboard out of the cab of the truck, set it on the faded hood, and pointed at two lines on the bottom of the forms. “Just sign here and here.”
Ken signed and drove away in his latest vehicle, pleased with the turn of events, but already regretting what was next.
* * *
Eric woke up slowly, shaking his head to try and clear his thoughts. As he tried to rub his blurred eyes and ease the brutal headache he found his arms were behind him and would not move. Had he broken them? What happened? He didn’t feel pain in his arms so he felt confident his arms were just trapped and not broken. His eyes started to clear and he found that he wasn’t on the side of the highway. Bright lines of light stared at him as he sat on a dirt floor in a shack or barn, the sun streaming in through cracks in the aged, cracked wooden walls. His hands were chained together behind a wooden pole that helped support the crumbling ceiling. He felt a heavy padlock securing the chain. As his head cleared, more things came into focus. On the far wall were gardening tools. Above a workbench was a dirty window. Eric could see through the grime that he was in a farmyard. The tools scattered around the room were as old and cracked as the walls of the building. The left side of the bench was cluttered with old oil cans and engine parts.
Eric looked closer at the right side of the workbench and recognized his backpack. Beside the backpack were his clothes. Beside the clothes were two neat piles. One was Eric’s selection of identifications, the other was a neat stack of his money. The bundles of new Canadian twenty-dollar bills formed two stacks twelve inches high. Beside the workbench sat Eric’s motorcycle. Eric, now fully alert, heard a shuffling sound to his right. He looked over and saw a man in his mid forties leaning back in an old wooden chair. The man had on striped overalls and old work boots with the toes worn through and repaired with electrical tape. The man had a ruddy face shaded from the streams of bright sunlight by a greasy baseball cap. A hunting rifle rested across the arms of the chair while the man chewed a thick roast beef sandwich. Crumbs from the homemade bread rained on the faded overalls. The clothes were different, but it was definitely the man who claimed he had a broken down truck on the highway. The man’s bloodshot eyes were fixed on Eric.
Despite his precarious position Eric maintained eye contact with the stranger, trying not to show the fear that built up inside him. The man didn’t blink, he just kept chewing, washing down the sandwich with what looked like lemonade.
“Where am I?”
The man kept chewing and staring.
“Why am I chained to this post?”
The man spit a chunk of beef fat onto the floor and an army of insects converged on the morsel. His mouth opened wide as he took another bite of the sandwich exposing rotten and brown teeth. He finished the sandwich and took another drink from the glass of lemonade.
A content look spread over the man’s face as he leaned back on the old chair, the legs creaking under the strain. “Who’re ya?”
Eric thought through the stack of identifications. “I’m a U.S. federal agent, sir. I’m under cover and ask that you release me immediately.”
The chair squeaked again. “Don’t sound like an agent to me.”
Eric tried to slip his hands out of the chains, to no avail. “I’m FBI, sir. If you look through the identification you’ll see my real identification, Keith O’Toole from Detroit. Release me at once.”
A brown smile appeared on the man’s face. He reached down beside his chair and lifted a newspaper. He flipped it open and pretended he was reading while Eric stared at the front-page picture of Ken and himself. Eric strained against the chains.
The man kept the paper in front of him. “Don’t think calling the Feds is a bad idea. They might be wonderin where their agent got to.”
Eric looked around the room. It was a mess, garbage and building material strewn everywhere. On the dirt floor where Eric sat the stranger had pushed aside a pile of refuse to give him room to tie Eric to the post. Eric’s eye caught sight of a thin strand of wire just behind his hands. He strained to reach it, but it was just out of reach.
* * *
The farmer lowered his newspaper. “Don’t read nothin about a reward for ya. But, seen what ya did on the television.”
The man got out of his chair. He was a small man, but the rifle made him look like a giant. He walked with a swagger over to the workbench and grabbed several bundles of money. “Might be persuaded to let you be on your way if you got me more like this. Seems to me you already done what you was goin to do. Seems a shame I can’t make a profit. Sure know that the farmin ain’t been good lately.”
“Indeed I can, much more. I just need to get to a bank machine.” Eric took the opportunity of the farmer moving to shuffle his place to the left, appearing to move so he could face the man better. Now Eric was able to grab the piece of wire.
The man put down the money and walked over to Eric. He pointed the gun at Eric’s foot. “Reckon if I was to shoot your foot off you’d tell me your code number and I could get the money myself.”
Eric slipped the end of the piece of wire into the lock, twisted it left, then right, just as he had practiced so many times. “Sure, but the video camera would see you accessing my account. They would easily track you down.”
“Never thought a that.”
The lock made a slight click as it opened. Eric glanced at the farmer who was too busy concocting a plan to get as much money as possible out of Eric to notice the noise. He lifted the rifle and rested it on his shoulder.
Eric slipped the lock off the chain and the chain fell off his wrists, freeing his hands. Eric felt around near his hand for a weapon, resisting a smile as he realized how much damage could be done with a heavy chain. Eric slipped the lock on one end of the chain.
“S’pose we can go to the bank in Fargo and send you to the bank machine.” The farmer turned to face the workbench. He pulled a metal tube out of a drawer on the workbench and screwed it onto the rifle barrel. “This here silencer may be homemade, but it works like a damn. I can sit in my truck a hundred yards away and easily put a slug in your heart if you try anything funny.”
The farmer turned around just as the lock on the end of the chain smashed through his skull. The man died instantly, crashing to the floor, blood pouring onto the dirt.
* * *
Ken considered searching for a motel, but decided the fewer people that saw him the better. He spotted a park with public washrooms and parked the truck, its engine sputtered before choking to a stop. Ken restarted the truck to make sure it would run. It started quickly but still coughing again after Ken turned off the key.
Ken patted the dusty dash of the truck. “Just hold on a day or two, baby.”
Throwing his fishing clothes over his shoulder he locked himself in a filthy toilet cubicle where he removed his clothes and changed into the jeans and plaid shirt. The fishing vest fit well and had plenty of pockets for the few goods he wanted to take across the border. He tucked most of the bundles of money in the heavy wool socks that were hidden by the baggy jeans. The selection of identifications slipped nicely into his underwear. His breast pocket held the Ontario driver’s licence, credit card, and seventy dollars in crumpled bills. The picture on the identification had blond hair and no moustache Ken checked outside the bathroom and there was nobody in sight. He went up to the cracked mirror and started cutting his hair with the scissors he had purchased. After it was short enough he pulled out his razor and shaving cream. After again confirming that he was alone he shaved his head, rinsing the remaining shave cream off his head with the ice-cold tap water. After inspecting himself in the mirror he thought he c
ould pass by simply telling the border guard that he was after a cooler look for the summer.
Ken stood outside the door and looked around the park. He was alone except for a jogger at the far end of the asphalt path, heading the opposite direction.
Ken took a deep breath and told himself. “Well, lets get the last part over with.”
He pulled the pliers out of the vest, took off the vest and shirt, and leaned close to the mirror. He gripped his left front tooth with the pliers and wiggled it a bit. Pulling the pliers out of his mouth, Ken rolled his shoulders, trying to build up courage. Bracing himself against the sink with his left hand, he carefully guided the pliers into place with his right hand. He closed his eyes and grimaced, yanking the tooth out of his mouth with a loud snap. Ken kicked the door shut and screamed, slamming his fist against the closed door. He turned around and leaned on the old yellow sink, the tooth resting precariously on the edge of the drain. Through tear-filled eyes Ken groped for the paper towel dispenser. He pulled out several towels and pressed them against his bleeding gum. The paper quickly filled with blood and Ken tossed it in the garbage, replacing it quickly with more towels. Despite the pain, Ken continued pressing the towels against the gum. After ten minutes the flow of blood slowed to a point where Ken could tuck some toilet tissue in the gap between his teeth, stemming the flow of blood.
He again checked the park, finding a mother with two children in the playground nearby. He pulled off more paper towel and cleaned the sink in case someone came to use it and called the police after seeing all the blood. The tooth jammed in the drain. Ken pushed it through the crossed metal wires in the drain. The sink looked passable but there was blood on the floor. Ken wiped it up to and stuffed the dirty shirt and bloody paper towels to the bottom of the garbage can. He looked outside again and saw the mother carrying a child and holding the hand of the other as she walked towards the washrooms. He backed up enough so she could see him, but not recognize him. She paid him no attention as she went into the women’s washroom with her children. Ken gathered his things in his suitcase and looked around the washroom. Seeing that he left nothing important behind he glanced in the mirror and noticed that his upper lip was swelling where the pliers jammed against it.
Rough Business Page 13