by R. A. McGee
“I am aware that he and the girl had some sort of disagreement, and that now, from what Todd tells me, she’s disappeared. He’s a bit upset, but regardless, I recognize it for what it is.”
“What’s that?” Porter said, the back of his neck growing hot.
“Something that’s not my problem.”
Porter pulled his right leg to the side of the chair. “I see.”
“I’m not sure if you do,” Jones said. “Right now, I see something that is my problem.”
Porter’s grip tightened on his fork.
A Cheshire-cat grin ate up Steven Jones’s face, the skin on top of his head, where his hair used to start, wrinkled like a pack of hot dogs. “I find it unacceptable that you put your hands on my son last night. And that is my problem.
“Todd may be a little prick, but that’s partially my fault. I have always stepped in when there was something he can’t handle. I feel like you may be a bit much for him, am I right?” Jones gave Baldy a subtle nod.
Porter waited for a split second and, true to form, Baldy grabbed him by the shoulder again. Porter reached up with his left hand and grabbed Baldy’s suit coat near the wrist. At the same time, he slid right and out of the chair, and pinned Baldy’s hand to the table.
Baldy was stretched out, unable to move his arm off the table. Porter buried his fork deep into Baldy’s neck. Baldy’s right hand moved from the butt of the pistol he was retrieving to the newly introduced fork. He made a gurgling noise.
Porter released his grip on the fork and slid his hand under the man’s suit coat, retrieving the pistol from the shoulder holster. He recognized the textured handle of a Heckler & Koch and leveled it in one smooth motion.
Certain that Baldy was preoccupied with the fork in his neck, Porter cycled the slide on the HK, hearing a round fall onto the table.
Steven Jones yelled. “Sora! Haruto!”
Porter struck the man with the butt of the pistol’s polymer frame, leaving him slumped on his plate of sausage. Porter hesitated for a moment, getting his bearings. He needed the most direct route out of the house.
Gun at eye level, Porter slipped into the living room and saw the other two men coming up the basement stairs. Both were wiping their hands.
Porter cracked off several rounds at the men. Moving and shooting with accuracy was easier said than done. Porter had practiced for years when he was a federal agent, but still shot marginally when on the move. The rounds impacted the doorway, making the men step back down the stairs.
Sprinting through the foyer, Porter slung the door open and slammed it closed behind him. He immediately stepped to the left, out of the doorway and behind the stone accent on the outside of the frame.
He breathed deeply to steady himself and waited.
Moments later, the door swung open and Thin Man leaped down the stairs. Ponytail was right behind him.
Porter pulled the trigger and shot Thin Man. He rushed the shot as he tracked the sprinting man, and as a result pushed the round to the right, into the man’s shoulder. He fell near the big ‘Jones’ in the driveway, pistol skittering across the cobblestones.
Ponytail turned toward the sound of the shot and grabbed the muzzle of Porter’s HK with his left hand, holding his own pistol in his right.
Porter stepped close to the man, driving a left hook into his throat. Ponytail groaned and dropped his pistol. Porter pulled the trigger on his HK, but Ponytail grabbing the slide had pushed it out of alignment and the pistol was now out of battery. With the slide ajar, the gun wouldn’t fire.
There was an easy remedy to get the pistol working again: tap the bottom of the magazine to make sure it was seated in the pistol properly, then rack the slide to expel any defective or otherwise damaged round. But Porter wasn’t interested in wasting any more time. He hit Ponytail on the side of the face with the metal slide of the HK, and the man sprawled out on the entry stairs. Porter dropped the useless pistol from his hand and sprinted toward the entry gate.
Using the bolts in the brick columns as footholds, Porter scaled the fence and straddled while he went over. He took a bit of perverse joy in the fact that a large puddle of blood was spreading from Thin Man’s shoulder all over Steven Jones’s expensive, porous cobblestone. There would be another brown stain in the driveway. Then he was gone.
Chapter 8
Through the auxiliary cord, the phone played “What’s Beef?” by The Notorious B.I.G. Porter rapped along with the deceased man, getting most of the words right.
The phone rang, interrupting the flow.
“Yeah?” Porter said.
“That’s how you answer the phone?”
“You’re lucky I didn’t cuss you out. I was just rapping about how many Gats I needed so I can get a good night’s sleep.”
“A Gat is a gun, right? If so, I would suggest you need all of them.”
“You might be right. What’s up, Ross?”
“What do you mean, ‘what’s up?’ Can’t I just call you to see how you are?” Ross said.
“Sure, but you never do,” Porter said.
“Fine. I’m moving some of your money. There’s a fund I want to get you into. Before I do that, I wanted to see how things were going out there. If you’re going to be coming into a chunk of money soon, I’ll hold off. I don’t want to do two stock trades if I can do one. That actually saves you money, but I know you don’t care,” Ross said.
“I care very much. That’s why I have you as my accountant. I trust you’re good at what you do. I don’t need all the gory details.”
“I prefer financial advisor. And you use me because I don’t charge you. Last time I tried you guilt-tripped me into waiving the fee,” Ross said.
“What kind of world are we living in if my best friend charges to help me out?”
“Whatever. How are things going? You closer to finding the girl?” Ross said.
Porter filled Ross in on the specifics as he understood them.
“You okay?” Ross said.
“I’m fine. A little ringing in my ear from the gunshots. You should see the other guys.”
“Think the guy with the fork in his neck is dead?”
“Probably so.”
“The guy was a gangster, right? Did you say Triads? You sure you’ve thought this thing through?” Ross said.
“What’s there to think about? Fifty grand is a lot for a reward. Twice as much as twenty-five, if you can’t do the math. I could use the money.”
“I know you don’t keep up with your accounts, but you aren’t hurting. The last few rewards have set you up pretty nice, considering you never spent much of your old salary either,” Ross said. “You remember what a salary is, don’t you?”
“I’m not hurting? Really? Then why am I in this piece of shit rental instead of an SUV? Hell, I’d even take a minivan at this point.”
The GPS interrupted to direct Porter off of the highway and onto a smaller thoroughfare.
“All I’m saying is, you don’t have to find that girl. Hell, I’ll pay to switch your ticket to today. This afternoon. Come back to Florida and leave those guys alone.”
“No can do. I said I’ll find this kid and I will,” Porter said. “Besides, it’s only double the money if I find her in the next ten hours. I can’t turn that down.”
“This isn’t about the money, is it? It’s never about the money. Why do you pretend?”
“It’s always about the money. You know me,” Porter said.
“Yeah, and that’s why you can’t fool me, man. I’ve known you for too long.”
“Just worry about your own job. I’ll call you when I have news,” Porter said.
“Don’t get killed,” Ross said, and then there was dead air over the speakers of the car.
Porter pushed Ross’s doubts from his mind. Ross was a great friend. The best. But
Ross was timid, careful, and calculating. He didn’t understand that sometimes, only violence solved a situation. Porter had learned that lesson long ago.
He drove in slow concentric circles, following a winding path away from the Jones home, further and further until he saw liquor stores. The liquor stores were quickly joined by check-cashing joints and hair salons. Porter drove slowly until he saw the type of place he was looking for.
In its former life, it had been a gas station, complete with a small automated carwash around the back. Now it was a canvas for graffiti artists, allowing them a place to advertise their work, with the consent of no one. Porter imagined the owner had learned the hard truth about owning a gas station, which was that selling gas didn’t make a person very much money. Truth was, where people made their profit was the markup on things like snacks and sodas. If there weren’t enough people buying, it was easy to go out of business.
Porter parked out front, in full view of the busy street. He didn’t lock his rental. The gas station was a large rectangle, parallel to the street. Porter moved around back to the carwash, which was hidden from view. It was also a rectangle, but not nearly as long as the gas station. The glass windows, which used to show the amazing automated process, were boarded up. Probably a mixture of foresight and a response to busted windows by the landlord.
Both ends of the carwash had thick plywood nailed over them, to keep people out. The wood was littered with graffiti. Porter tried the wood and found it to be securely fastened. This place would do.
Porter walked around the front and leaned on his car for a few minutes, getting a feel for the area. It wasn’t as heavily trafficked as it could be. People drove, it seemed, and there wasn’t much pedestrian traffic. It wasn’t that poor of a neighborhood.
Starting the car, Porter trailed down the strip, looking for something. He wasn’t disappointed. A quarter-mile away from the carwash was small storefront with a sign that read ‘Army-Navy.’ Porter parked in the back of the parking lot, furthest to the right.
A large cowbell clanged when he entered. The shop was empty, save for the mannequins dressed in fatigues and ghillie suits. When Porter had been a federal agent, he’d worn ghillie suits when he taught people long-range shooting tactics. The suits itched. He wondered who would buy a jumpsuit with fake leaves, moss, and netting at an urban store. The suit would blend into no background anywhere near the place.
“See anything you like, young blood?” The shop owner had materialized from a concealed back room while Porter looked through crappy nylon holsters in a bin.
The man was old and several shades darker than Porter. He wore a Vietnam Veteran hat and the several-day start of a grizzled gray beard.
“You served?” Porter said.
“Served is a funny word. Most of the time I felt like I was getting served up. But yeah, I was there.”
“My dad too. Thanks for your service.”
“You’re welcome. What was your dad?”
“Army. First Cavalry,” Porter said.
“No shit? Me too. When was he there?”
“He got hurt in ’72.”
“Little after my time. Leon, by the way.” The man extended a large hand, shaking Porter’s firmly.
Porter had a theory on handshakes. Every shitty person he had ever met had a flimsy handshake. Weak, clammy, soft. Sure, some tried to compensate and went the other route, with a vise grip. They were no good either. Porter always left the shaker sorry he tried to bulldog him. Always.
The handshake of a good man was firm, almost to the point of being too much. But it wasn’t too much because the shaker wasn’t a douchebag and knew better. Leon shook a mean hand.
“What you looking for, young blood?” Leon said. “I got all sorts of stuff in here.”
“I’m easy. You have handcuffs?”
“Course. Plenty of those.” Leon stepped behind the glass-topped counter, slid a drawer open, and produced a familiar blue box that said ‘Smith and Wesson.’ “How many?”
“Better make it four,” Porter said.
Leon pulled out three more boxes. “That all?”
“One of those extended cuff keys too. I hate trying to use the little ones they give you in the box,” Porter said.
Leon reached for a rack on the pegboard behind him and pulled off a handcuff key that was several inches longer than normal, allowing the user to get a better purchase on it. “What else?”
“Too much to hope you have a crowbar in here?”
Leon looked down for a moment and then shook his head. “Nope, ’fraid not, young blood. Can’t say I do.”
“How about one of those entrenching tools? You know, the ones that are tough to twist open?”
The entrenching tool was basically a shovel, but short enough that some would call it a spade. It was small enough to hold in your hands. In order to further compact it, there was a hinge directly above the blade that allowed the shovel head to fold back on itself. Not a crowbar, but it would do in a pinch.
Leon padded off to a bin on the other side of the store, coming back with two, one black and one green. He held them both up to Porter, who took the black one, setting it down with his small pile of goods.
“What you think, young blood, that about do it for you?”
“For this stuff, yeah, I’m good.”
Leon rang up the purchase, and Porter paid with three twenties. Leon put all his items in a large brown paper bag and threw in a sticker—a black horse head on a yellow shield and a black line across the front. “Give that to your pops for me, what with him being a First Cav brother in arms.”
“He passed a while back, but if you don’t mind, I’ll keep it. Always have a place for this.”
“Sure enough,” Leon said. “Sorry to hear about that. Crazy how even if you survive a war where you have to fight to keep from dying, it don’t matter much. God always has his way.”
“That He does,” Porter said.
“Now what was the other thing you was gonna ask me about?”
“You don’t know where I can get a cheap car, do you?” Porter said.
“How cheap is cheap?”
“Dirt. I need it to last about a hundred miles. Maybe a little more,” Porter said.
“Youngblood, you know I gotta ask,” Leon said.
“I don’t blame you. Strange shopping list. I promise I’m doing the right thing. I’m not hurting anyone who doesn’t deserve it.”
Leon looked at Porter for a few moments, then nodded approvingly. “I know. You have a good handshake. Honest man.”
“I’d like to think so,” Porter said.
“Look here, my brother-in-law owns a junkyard on the other side of town. Junk cars, they don’t last too long, if they last at all. I shouldn’t complain, though, I been driving one for years.”
“A junker that lasts years?” Porter said.
“No, son, different cars. When Ricky gets a car in that runs a little bit, he gives it to me. I drive it into the ground, then he comes and hauls it off. He was just gonna scrap the things for metal anyway, what does he care if I drive it some first? I ain’t had a car payment in seven years.”
“You don’t happen to have one of those here now, do you?” Porter said.
“Of course. You think I walk to work? Does it look like I like to exercise, young blood?”
“You look pretty stout to me. What are the chances I can buy that car from you? I would ask to borrow it, but I’m not sure you’ll ever get it back.”
“You can’t buy the car. No sir. Not for sale.”
“I understand,” Porter said.
“But I’ll give it to you, you really need it,” Leon said.
“Really? I’m saying you probably won’t get it back,” Porter said.
“Hell, it don’t make me no never-mind.” Leon handed Porter a business card. “
This is Ricky’s number. Just be sure to call him and tell him where it drops dead at. He’ll come and get it.”
“You sure?” Porter said.
“Damn, young blood, I already gave it to you. It’s done. One day, I imagine I’m going to meet that pops of yours in Heaven somewhere. How’m I gonna look if he comes up to me and says, ‘Leon Williams, why you turn away from my son when he needed help?’ What could my answer be? No sir, that car is yours and there ain’t any buts about it. Besides, you was just gonna get one some other kind of way, am I right?”
Porter nodded.
“This way, you keep from having to be one of the bad guys to get a damn junked car. Just use the damned thing.”
“Fair enough. Thanks for this, I appreciate it,” Porter said.
“It ain’t nothing, I already told you. I’ll go get it and meet you around front.” Leon padded out the back door.
Porter pulled the rest of his money out of his pocket, and stuffed it into a rusted Folgers decaf can with a slit in the green top and the word ‘TIPS’ written on it in Sharpie. Porter turned the coffee can on its side and sat it on the cash register.
Leon met Porter out front with a coughing and wheezing Plymouth Sundance. It was the less sexy version of a Dodge Shadow, which was about as alluring as week-old fish.
The Sundance was running and Leon got out, then patted it on the hood. “Babe will get you where you need to go.”
“Babe?”
“Yeah. I name all the cars. It makes it feel more intimate. This jalopy is named after Babe the Blue Ox. It seems fitting.”
“Babe,” Porter said, setting the bag on the floorboard. “Thanks for this. Again.”
“You don’t worry about it, young blood. You just make sure you do right.”
“Always,” Porter said.
Chapter 9
Porter headed back toward Steven Jones’s idyllic street in his pretty neighborhood. He left bus stop benches and graffiti behind him.
Poking his head in a gas station, Porter got a bag of sunflower seeds and a bottle of water. He went over to the drink bar and got an empty cup, taking everything to the front.