by Philip Cox
‘Emeline.’
‘Whatever.’ The Asian patted his coat pocket. ‘I’ll be in touch, Bill. Have a nice day, now.’ He turned round at the door. ‘My name’s Lee, by the way. Mr Lee. And remember: discretion is essential.’ With that, he left the room, quietly closing the door behind him.
Kirk stood still for a few moments, then stepped over to the door. Peered out into the corridor, both ways. Then went back into the room. He switched the kettle on for more coffee and dialled room service. Ordered grits, eggs, bacon and toast, with filter coffee. He picked up the photographs and flicked through them again. Held two of them up at an angle, grinning. Keeping the television on mute he lay down on the bed, clasping his hands behind his head. He smiled and started singing softly.
Alabama, Alabama,
So far from you have I roamed.
Alabama, Alabama,
Now I’m soon comin’ home.
Chapter 20
It was just before midday when Lee rang Kirk. Kirk let it ring five times, then picked up.
‘Bill Kirk.’
‘This is Mr Lee, Bill.’
‘I guessed it would be you.’
‘I feared for a moment you weren’t going to pick up. What were you doing?’
‘I was in the bathroom. You’re calling with your delivery instructions?’
‘That is correct. You have the money?’
‘Not yet. I was waiting for you to call first. I’m going to the bank later.’
‘Good decision, Bill.’
‘Let’s not prolong this call. Where and when?’
‘Let me see. Your hotel is across the street from Union Station, yes?’
‘Yup.’
‘Go over there at 5:30. You will see that in the main part of the depot there are rows of wooden benches, after the restaurant tables and across from the kiosk.’
‘I know, yes.’
‘I shall meet you there, back row of seats if possible, just before the entrance to the tracks. I shall have with me a black backpack. You will need to have something similar with the money inside. We can then discretely exchange bags.’
‘And that’s it? You’re going to check the cash in plain sight?’
‘I don’t think there’s a need to; do you, Bill? Just think of your family.’
‘All right. Two grand in a black backpack, 5:30 at Union Station.’
‘You got it. Have a good day, Bill.’
With that Lee hung up. Kirk pursed his lips and tapped his chin with the phone. About five hours to go. He leapt off the bed and put on his shoes. Checked under the bed once more, made a visual check of the room, and left. As he walked through the lobby he saw that Ms Katherine Huth was on duty: they made eye contact and he gave her a cheery wave. She looked up and gave him a reluctant smile.
Kirk was sure that one of the stores in the lobby would have a black backpack on their shelves, but they were bound to be expensive. Even though ultimately he would not be paying, he saw no reason to get ripped off. As he left the hotel, he turned to the left and headed towards Olvera Street. He had been here once or twice before and knew he would be able to find what he was after at one of the shops there. They would not exactly be Wal-Mart, but a lot cheaper than the boutique in the hotel.
And he was correct. Olvera Street is full of stands and stores, catering for tourists, offering all kinds of memorabilia and souvenirs, all with a Mexican theme. At the second store, for $8.50 plus tax, he found exactly what he was looking for. Telling the little Mexican woman no change was needed, he swung the backpack over his shoulder and headed out.
It was one o’clock now, and Kirk was feeling hungry. He looked around and saw a restaurant across the street. He wandered over and checked the menu outside La Noche Buena. He was not a fan of Mexican food, but noticed they did offer genuine American fare also. That was good: also good was the fact that the little restaurant was almost empty, a plus point as far as Kirk was concerned as he hated eating in crowded places.
An hour later, and Kirk emerged after having consumed fried chicken, French fries and coleslaw, followed by apple pie and coconut ice cream. He checked his watch. Time to get back to the hotel now and prepare. His reservation was for four nights: if he was really lucky and this evening went as well as he hoped, he would not need to go through the bother of extending his stay in LA.
In his previous job, Kirk always made a point of arriving at a conference or a meeting at least an hour before the event began, to get a good parking spot, to look over the venue, and get familiar with his surroundings. Today was no exception. At 4:40 he was ready. With the black backpack on the bed, he knelt down and felt underneath the king-sized divan. A brown box was fixed to the slats underneath the bed. Kirk unpeeled the grey duct tape and pulled the box out, opening it on the bed.
In the box was a small handgun – a Heckler & Koch Compact 45. Kirk lifted it out and felt its weight. The box also contained a suppressor and a box of 9mm cartridges. Kirk loaded the weapon and fitted the silencer and tested the weight again, aiming at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Not perfect, but manageable. He took the brown leather holster out of his suitcase and put it on, followed by his coat. Slipped the loaded HK into the holster and the suppressor into his pocket.
4:52pm.
Showtime.
Chapter 21
Kirk took the elevator down and walked through the lobby to the main doors. He looked out for Ms Huth, for no special reason other than curiosity, but it looked as if she was off duty now.
He crossed over North Alameda and walked through the little parking lot in front of the station. Kirk looked up at the white tower with the red stucco pointed roof: the clock on the tower indicated just before five.
Once through the doors, Kirk paused and looked around. He couldn’t see Lee, but there was no reason why the little weasel couldn’t be here early too.
The benches in question were at the end of the main hall, on one side, facing outwards. Kirk walked past the circular white clothed tables of the Traxx diner on one side, and the newspaper and magazine kiosk on the other. As Lee had said, the benches were just before the entrance to the subways which lead to the tracks and the MTA lines. Kirk paused and looked around once more, checking the passengers who were browsing at the kiosk. No Lee.
Kirk turned back and walked out of the building. He stopped at the edge of the parking lot, and sat down on the edge of the low whitewashed wall bordering the neatly maintained flower beds. Here he could remain partially out of plain sight, yet have a view of the main doors so he could see when Lee arrived. He was uncertain if there were any other entrances or exits, but this was the main one, and he only had one pair of eyes, anyway.
Now 5:08pm, and rush hour was getting under way. There was a steady flow of commuters heading into the station, and every so often, Kirk could hear a locomotive horn, loud and imperious, unlike the frequent car horns he could hear all the time.
Kirk waited.
It was now 5:31 and Kirk had not seen Lee arrive. The Asian may have been in the crowds of commuters arriving, and it occurred to Kirk that he may have actually arrived on the MTA. Whatever, it was time for Kirk to go back inside.
As he reached the row of benches, Kirk could see Lee sitting on the back bench, right at the end. Lee was not wearing the coat he had on earlier, just an open-necked shirt. The bench was empty save Lee and three women right at the other end. Lee sat up as he saw Kirk arrive. He did not slide along the bench as Kirk stood in front, so Kirk brushed past and sat down next to him.
‘You’re a few minutes late, Bill,’ Lee said, looking directly ahead.
‘Sorry.’ Kirk shuffled around in his seat. ‘I lost track of time. Excuse the pun.’ He held the backpack between his legs, as Lee was doing with his.
‘The money is in there?’ Lee asked, nodding down to Kirk’s bag.
‘Maybe.’
‘Excuse me, Bill?’
‘I’ve brought you something else.’ As he spok
e, Kirk casually pushed his coat back to reveal the holster and the HK. Lee glanced down, reacted briefly, then regained his composure and looked ahead again.
‘You’re being very foolish, Bill. Just think how your wife and your children would feel if they should see what you were doing last night.’
Kirk leaned to the left, so his left arm was touching Lee’s right. ‘Let me let you into a little secret, Mr Lee. I can’t keep calling you Mr Lee, can I? What’s your name?’
Lee paused before replying. ‘Chong.’
‘Chong,’ Kirk repeated. ‘Chong. Chong. Chong.’ He kept repeating the name, as if practising pronouncing it. Lee was becoming irritated, but tried to hide his irritation. ‘You see, Chong,’ Kirk continued, ‘the woman and the kids in that picture I showed the girl won’t really give a rat’s ass what I was up to last night.’
‘I don’t understand you,’ Lee said.
Kirk chuckled. ‘How did she do it? Rohypnol?’
‘She did use Flunitrazepam, yes.’
‘Rohypnol to you and me. And that was why she almost pissed her pants when I said I wanted a mineral water or a vodka, wasn’t it? Rohypnol these days has a blue dye which would show in a clear liquid, but not in whiskey and coke.’
Lee straightened up. ‘What do you want, Bill?’
Kirk ignored the question. ‘And I’m guessing once I was out, the girls - with you helping, maybe – manhandled me into those positions?’
Lee asked again, ‘What do you want, Bill? Surely you’re not going to shoot me in the middle of Union Station.’
Kirk patted the HK. ‘I have a silencer. Nobody’s going to hear a thing. It’s rush hour, remember? Well, you want me not to call the police, right? I want you to tell me who’s running your outfit, and to refund the money you’ve extorted from my friend John Thomas Hightower.’
‘Hightower?’
‘Big fat guy from Birmingham, Alabama. He was here a couple of weeks ago.’
Lee nodded. ‘Yes, I remember. You and he are friends?’
‘Well, more the friend of a friend of a friend. So, first, give me the name of who you’re working for.’
Lee said nothing.
Kirk’s hand moved slowly down to the HK.
Lee gave Kirk the name.
‘Excellent. Well done. Now, I want you to call your boss, and say I want Hightower’s money returned.’
‘When?’
‘Call your boss now. Say we’ll come and get Hightower’s money. I’m told he’s paid you four grand so far.’
Lee took out his phone and began to dial. Kirk reached out and stopped him.
‘Wait,’ Kirk said. ‘Let’s just go over there. Go see your boss.’
Lee said nothing. Just nodded acquiescence.
‘Come on, then.’ Kirk stood and took Lee’s arm as the Asian stood as well. ‘You parked out front?’
Lee shook his head. ‘Gateway Center. Other side of here.’
‘Which way, then?’
‘This way. Follow me, please.’
Kirk was amazed how, even at gunpoint, Lee remained as polite as he was in the hotel room. Lee took Kirk past the subways to the tracks and along a corridor. As they passed the escalator down to the Gold Line, the passage became a bridge over the railroad tracks, after which the bridge connected with the parking garage.
‘Which floor?’ Kirk asked.
‘Up one floor, Bill.’
On entering the garage, they took the elevator up one floor. Now covering Lee with the unholstered HK, Kirk asked, ‘Which car is yours?’
‘The silver one over there.’
Lee led Kirk over to a silver Ford Mustang V6, its roof folded down. It had either been freshly valeted, or was new. Kirk could smell the leather.
‘Very nice, Chong,’ Kirk said. ‘But you can probably afford it.’
‘Thank you, Bill,’ Lee said politely as he climbed in. Still covering the Asian, Kirk climbed in the front passenger seat. Both men threw their backpacks into the back.
‘Remember,’ Kirk said as he pointed the HK at Lee, ‘no tricks.’
‘No tricks, Bill. I give you my word.’
As Lee turned on the ignition and noisily revved the engine, its sound echoing around the parking level, Kirk became aware of another smell as well as that of fresh leather.
A sweet smell.
Then William Kirk could smell nothing.
Chapter 22
Delroy switched off the Honda CB1000R and kicked down the stand. Once the throbbing of the 1140cc engine had stopped, the air was silent, and still. The sky was clear and the moon was bright – not a full moon, but as near as damn it. Looking up at the night sky, Delroy could see dozens and dozens of stars of varying brightness. He could see the flashing lights from two aircraft, one of which seemed to be reducing height and heading towards LAX; the other in the other direction, probably having taken off over the ocean, then making a one-eighty to head eastwards. He could also make out a helicopter, flying much lower, heading across the city.
In one direction, he could see nothing. He knew there was nothing anyway; just mountainside. In the other direction, looking down, he could see hundreds and hundreds of streetlights, across and down, like a gigantic chequer board. Somewhere down there, was his house, with his brother, his mom, and his nana.
Amongst those white streetlights were lines upon lines of white vehicle lights and red vehicle lights, slowly crossing the chequer board. Some of these lights were travelling parallel with the streetlights; others were moving across the board at an angle. Delroy guessed these were the freeways.
As the moon was bright, Delroy did not need to provide his own illumination, either a flashlight or the Honda’s headlamp. Both carried extra risk.
He unhooked his backpack and checked the contents. All there: three aerosols of paint. One black, one yellow, one red.
Returning the cans to his backpack, Delroy set off. Walking across the empty blacktop, he headed for the building. He looked it up and down and whistled. This would be some coup. All he wanted was to be appreciated for who he was; to be noticed. His older brother always got the glory; he was just the kid Delroy.
Just the kid.
Now they’d see.
At school he was no good at drawing, no good at painting. But Delroy was artistic.
He was an artist, looking for his canvas. And after circling the perimeter of the building, stumbling sometimes, he had found it.
He took out his three cans, and shook the first, the yellow.
Cans of aerosol paint contain two things: paint and propellant. The propellant is liquefied gas. At normal temperature, it is a gas, forced into the can at high pressure, causing it to liquefy. Pressing on the nozzle releases the pressure and some of the propellant reverts to gas. The gas then shoots the paint out. When a can is shaken, it rattles. This is the sound of a metal ball bearing mixing the paint and propellant. Delroy and his contemporaries felt the rattling sounded cool, and was even cooler being done to music.
When the rattling stopped, indicating the paint and propellant were adequately mixed, Delroy pulled at his left sleeve, and held the excess material over his nose and mouth.
Then he began work.
On his way up the mountainside, he thought about what type of message he should leave. When he was twelve, he was just tagging, which was literally kids’ stuff – just putting your name really with one colour. Basic stuff, though with the advantage that it was quick. You could leave your tag and be gone before the cops or security guards got there. Some of his older friends had graduated to heaven; that is, leaving your mark on somewhere very hard to reach, like a railroad bridge or a freeway sign.
No, Delroy wanted to leave his mark in his own way: not too simple, yet not dangerous for the artist. He wanted to impress those about him, but not to reveal his identity to the wrong people.
He knew what he would paint. He would leave what was known as a throw-up: an outline and a fill. The normal bubble font. Not that Delroy knew wha
t a font was.
He began the word.
A large, bubble-font of the letter H. Then an O. Then an L. Then another L.
Then Delroy froze.
Was that the sound of a car? Surely not. Not at this time of night.
He listened intently. It was, and it was coming nearer.
Then Delroy could make out headlights. Not coming in a straight line, but weaving to the right first, then the left, then the right, as one would expect travelling up a mountain road.
Too close for comfort now. Not bothering to pick up his bag or the paint cans, Delroy hit the deck. Where he had landed was open ground: in this bright moonlight, he could easily be seen here in plain sight. He took a deep breath and sprinted twenty, thirty, yards down the hill to where there was more brush, and cover. There he lay, his stomach and face pressed against the sand and rock. He was breathing heavily, partly as a result of the sprint, partly as he was terrified.
The pair of headlights had stopped. So had the engine. Closer up, he could tell it was not a car; something slightly larger, like a pick-up truck. He could hear the sound of doors slamming, then of voices. Men’s voices, but Delroy could not make out what they were saying.
The voices - Delroy could make out only two – travelled down the side of the hill. Delroy clung to the ground hard.
More talking. The voices appeared raised. Now the two men were shouting. Delroy could hear some other indistinguishable sounds, and then the voices were coming up the hill again.
Clinging to the deck, Delroy held his breath as two pairs of feet passed not six feet away from his head. They were walking quickly, but not in a straight line. As if they were carrying something.
Now Delroy was shaking with fear. He could feel something warm and wet between his legs, then soaking through the upper part of his jeans. ‘Shit,’ he whispered through clenched teeth.
As the voices got further away, Delroy could make out one of them saying something like, ‘I know another place.’ The conversation continued further up the hill before the doors slammed again. The engine fired up. By the engine sounds and the way the headlights moved, Delroy could see the vehicle was turning round, before the sound and red tail lights, weaving right and left again, disappeared from view.