The Last Gig

by Norman Green

  The forklift stood silent in one of the rows between the pallet racks. It was the kind of machine you stood on to drive. Al climbed on and the thing clicked into life when it felt her weight, its electric motors whining. She played with the controls a minute until she’d figured out how it worked, then stepped off again. She took one more circuit around the edges of the warehouse, looking through the normal junk that accumulates in those places: a pile of broken pallets, some brooms, a bucket and mop, a battery charger for the forklift, a long piece of rusty metal chain.

  The orange racks were not fastened to the floor, they were freestanding, depending on the weight of their contents to keep them still. Originally, Alessandra had planned on simply shooting the shit out of whatever was in the place, but as much fun as that might be, she thought she saw a more efficient way. She dragged the piece of chain over to the forklift.

  It took a few minutes to set it up. She climbed up to the top of one end of the pallet rack, tied one end of the chain around the top corner, then climbed back down and tied the other end of the chain to the forklift. She drove the forklift slowly backward until the chain went taut. She wondered if her granny knots would hold. She was sure that you weren’t supposed to use chains that way, but the chain tightened on itself as she backed away. She increased the strain. The racks were not entirely rigid, the top corner curled forward as she backed away, the forklift groaning and skidding its tires. That chain breaks, she thought, I’m probably toast . . . It didn’t, though, it held until she’d gotten the pallet rack past the point of no return. Some of the boxes in the top slots of the rack fell out and crashed to the floor, but then the whole thing came down, not all at once, but slowly, from one end to the other, curling down like a wave as it crumps lengthwise on a beach. The sound was stupefying, she could feel the impact up through the floor, and the vibration set off a few of the sprinkler heads, raining water down on the mess.

  She’d only pulled down the first section, the other two rows stood still behind the rubble and the sudden dust cloud. Didn’t think of that, did you, she thought. If you’d pulled over the farthest rack, you might have gotten them all to domino . . . But what she’d done seemed like enough.

  Her ears rang as she got off the forklift and walked back over to the column where the black guy was kneeling down, his eyes squeezed shut, his forehead resting against the cold steel. She got down on one knee next to him. “Dude,” she said. “What’s your name?”

  “Malik.” He didn’t open his eyes.

  “Mal, what’s in the barrels?”

  He kept his eyes squeezed shut. “I don’t know, man . . .”

  “C’mon, Mal, I’m trying to help you here.” She put a finger under his chin, tilted his head back. “Look at me, Mal. I want you to.” He opened his eyes, watched as she perched her shades up on top of her head. “You’re gonna be all right, Mal. I’m not gonna hurt you. Who do you work for?”

  “Jerry Tomasino.” His voice was barely a whisper.

  “Okay. Cool. Listen to me now. Jerry Tomasino sent some of his goons to fuck me up. I want you to tell Jerry who did this to him. You know what I’m saying? Rican bitch with some faded bruises on her face. Okay?”

  He nodded silently.

  “What’s in the barrels?”

  “Lady,” he said, his voice tight with fear, “I’m just a driver, I swear to God—”

  “Yo, Mal, come on. I could leave a key for those cuffs. I could put it right here on the floor so you can reach it with your foot. I could give you maybe ten minutes before I call the cops, you could get loose, you and your boy Henry could get gone before they show up. Or I could leave you stuck. Now I know Tomasino doesn’t give a shit about glycerin. Safe bet he doesn’t give a shit about you, either. What’s in the barrels?”

  “The ones with the blue labels . . .” His voice was a whisper. “I’ve heard, you know . . .”

  “Spit it out, Mal.”

  He glanced in the Korean’s direction. “Opium base,” he said. “The other ones are decoys. They never move. They been sitting here as long as I been around.”

  Tomasino, she thought, I am no longer your biggest problem. “Okay, Mal. You got a cell phone?”

  He nodded. “Inside jacket pocket.”

  She put one hand on his shoulder while she retrieved his phone with the other one. An intimate gesture, casual physical contact between friends. He felt solid, felt like a good guy. “Sorry about your phone, Mal.”

  “It’s okay. Company phone.”

  “Tomasino has an Englishman working for him. Short guy, blond hair. What’s his name?” She felt him stiffen under her hand. He took a deep breath before he answered.

  “Parker,” he said. “Wallace Parker.”

  “Great,” she said. “One more, Hispanic, guy named Ramon.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “The Spanish cats come and go. I don’t remember a Ramon.”

  “All right. Don’t forget, you tell Jerry who did this. You tell him I can reach out and touch him anytime I want. Got it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good.” She fished a small silver key out of her pocket, placed it on the floor.

  There were only four barrels with blue labels, they shivered and danced when she shotgunned them open. An oily, viscous fluid spilled out on the floor. The other barrels had been there a while, you could tell because they were coated with dust. You should have noticed that, she told herself. She blew a couple of them apart, just for comparison. And for fun. They were filled with something that looked and ran like water.

  She opened the door, stuck her head out. The parking lot was still empty, except for the panel truck and a half dozen Canada geese that were waddling up the grassy verge by the Dumpster. She retrieved her towel, wrapped up the shotgun, stepped out. It felt good to be back outside, in the sunshine.

  Back in the van, she dialed Marty’s cell, but he had his voice mail on. Must be busy, she thought. She left him a short message, told him the Norwood warehouse was Tomasino’s, but she didn’t tell him how she knew.

  Twenty

  Marty Stiles drove through the suburban streets of northern New Jersey. There was a Dunkin’ Donuts right on the New York state line—the place pulled him in like a magnet. This is why you can’t lose any weight, he told himself. You can’t stay out of joints like this . . . But you’re gonna need the energy, he thought. Who knows what you’re gonna run into out here? And they were having a special, anyway, large coffee, light and sweet, plus two glazed sticks for four bucks.

  Back out on the road, he crossed over into Orange County, New York. It was his first trip to that part of the state. It looked depressing as hell. As soon as you passed out of Jersey and into New York State, the whole ambiance changed. The border is not real, he thought, it’s nothing but an abstraction, an imaginary line, but on the north side of that line, everything definitely started looking seedier and more low-rent. It was more commercial, too. He passed old factory buildings, railroad sidings, industrial parks, a shuttered drive-in movie, and a strip joint. He peered at the street signs as he drove, finally found the one he was looking for and pulled into one of the industrial parks. Once off the main road, he eased his car to a stop and looked around.

  He found the right building. It housed, at least in theory, three businesses. One was a cosmetics warehouse, the second a Korean import-export company, and the third was Access Fine Chemicals. The building was slapped together out of prefabricated panels, looked more or less like something a six-year-old would build out of Lego blocks. Access Fine was at one end of the building. Marty crept slowly on past, watching carefully. The parking lot out back was about three-quarters full, but the few windows at Access Fine were dark, and on the front stoop a couple of soggy folded newspapers lay on the concrete, deteriorating slowly back into cellulose. Somebody’s paying the rent, Marty thought, but it didn’t look like they were conducting much business. He wasn’t totally confident in his information. A lawyer employed by the guy who ran Access Fine—the
one who had gotten stiffed on his fee—had told him the place was a drug lab. But with lawyers, you could never be sure what angle they were working.

  A guy in a suit came out the front door of the cosmetics warehouse, which was in the center of the building. He looked blankly at Marty, then turned and headed for the parking lot. That tears it, Marty thought, and he stepped on the gas, motored on past, found a place to make a U-turn, then headed back out to the main road, where he turned south, back toward Dunkin’ Donuts. Kill some time, he told himself. Come back later, after dark.

  The place was mostly dark when Marty drove past it a second time. He parked his car next to some Dumpsters behind a truck garage right down the road from Access Fine. Why am I doing this, he wondered. Ain’t I a little too old for this shit? I must have taken a wrong turn, somewhere back down the line, I must have did something wrong, I must have stepped off course. By now, I should have been out of this, I should be sitting behind a desk getting a blow job from my secretary, I should have sent Martillo out here . . . Not too late for that, he thought, I could go home right now, get Martillo to do this tomorrow night. What difference would one more day make? He thought about calling her, heard her voice in his head question his manhood. Knock it off, he told himself. You’ve done this kind of thing all your life. Why back out now?

  I’m just tired, he thought. That’s all it is. Shouldn’t have eaten them two donuts. He got out of the car, grunted as he stood up. He slapped his jacket pockets, doing a quick inventory: flashlight, cell phone, camera. He’d brought a .38 because it was smaller and lighter than his nine millimeter. It was in a holster, strapped to his belt.

  The camera was low tech, he’d had it for years. It took him a moment to load it with a roll of high-speed film. He knew Martillo used something digital, but he was used to his old Nikon, he had confidence that he’d get good, clear images from it. Martillo was probably right, the digital stuff was lighter and probably better, but he was sticking with what he knew. He shifted the .38 on his belt, looking for a place where it wouldn’t dig into his belly, even though he knew no such place existed. You should just leave it under the front seat of the car, he told himself. Thirty years of this, you ain’t had to shoot anybody yet. He felt naked without it, though, so he left it on his belt. Probably won’t need half this crap, he thought. Mickey Caughlan ain’t gonna need pictures, you could lose the camera, too. All the Mick wants is a name. Who’s the son of a bitch who’s playing me, who’s the guy on my payroll that’s doing me like this? That’s all he cares about. Marty felt sorry for the guy, whoever he was. You shoulda found a softer target, he thought. Someone who would go whine to the cops, or his lawyer, or his wife. When Mickey finds out who you are, you’re gonna feel like a building fell on you . . .

  Access Fine lay about a hundred feet away. The building was silhouetted by the streetlights out on the main road and the few spotlights in the parking lot, but the end of the building facing him was in darkness. There were still a few cars in the lot. Probably the Koreans working late, Marty thought. No wonder they’re kicking our ass . . . He’d have to make his way through a line of underbrush and small trees that marked the property line between the two buildings. He could go out around, walk down the driveway from the truck garage and around to Access Fine, but he didn’t want to announce his presence, and besides, it was longer that way.

  He paused when he got to the tree line, waited to see if anyone was out and around. He listened to the hum of tires from the traffic out on the main road, but the industrial park was a daytime destination, and the only sign of life was him. He pushed his way through the undergrowth, felt the soft ground suck at his loafers. God, he hated the country, it was all bugs and mud and small animals, buried PCBs and chromium and God only knew what else. Jesus. He smelled something distasteful. Maybe a skunk in the neighborhood, he thought, and wouldn’t that be great, get sprayed by one of those sonsabitches? He unholstered the .38, wondering if a dead skunk smelled any less potent than a live one that was pissed off at you. But if he’s gonna get me, Marty thought, I’m gonna get him, by God. He crossed the open space between the tree line and Access Fine at a fast waddle.

  There was a back door to Access Fine, it was in the gloom between two big roll-up truck doors. It had a dead bolt and a lock, but they were both of the cheesy hardware store variety, and they yielded to Marty’s ministrations without too much resistance. He slipped inside the door, pushed it softly closed behind him, stood motionless, silent, all his senses wide awake.

  He could hear water dripping somewhere. There was a strange tang in the air, something he couldn’t quite identify, but it tingled at his sinuses and collected in the mucus at the back of his throat. After I get Mickey Caughlan’s money, he thought, I am definitely finished with this shit . . . He fished out his flashlight, clicked it on, scanned half the room, then turned it back off again. The space was mostly empty, looked like the last legitimate business to occupy the space had moved out in a hurry, left behind a collection of dented stainless steel tanks, some rusting conveyors, and a bunch of empty wooden packing crates. He did it again, scanned the other half of the room for a second or two. It was somewhat more organized, looked like someone had set up some kind of a rudimentary production line over against the far wall. There was an enclosed space up at the front of the building, probably housed some offices. Marty stood still, focused on the darkness up front. After some time it seemed to him that there was a very thin band of light down near the floor. Light on in one of the offices, Marty thought. Either my guy is still here, or he forgot to hit the switch on his way home. He clicked his flashlight on one more time, noted the exit door in a far corner, over next to a big circuit breaker panel with its door hanging by the bottom hinge.

  He put his pistol back in the holster, hefted his Nikon, and took a couple shots of the jury-rigged production line. The camera’s shutter and auto-wind motor snapped and reefed, sounding too loud in the empty room. There was a noise up front, behind the door to the offices, then some muted voices. Marty turned in that direction instinctively, pushed the camera’s button reflexively as the door opened, blinding him.

  “Holy shit!”

  Marty didn’t really see the guy, he just had an impression of a white lab coat swirling as the guy dodged back into the office, slamming the door behind him. Gotcha, Marty thought, and he dropped the Nikon, let it swing from its lanyard around his neck. He clawed for the pistol, felt his way back toward the door, back the way he’d come. He still had the replica of his NYPD badge, felt the weight of it in his jacket pocket. It had gotten him out of situations like this before, because it was a rare soul who really wanted to kill a cop. Cops were like Hell’s Angels: you fight one of them, you got to be ready to fight them all.

  Marty was not quite all the way to the back wall when the door banged open again. A tall man stood silhouetted in the light from the office. This was a second guy, bigger than the one in the lab coat. “Police!” Marty shouted. “Put your hands up, turn around and face the wall!”

  The guy in the doorway hit a switch on the wall next to him, flooding the big room with light. He’s not going for it, Marty thought, and his knees buckled under him, sending him to the floor. He heard two booming shots, felt shrapnel from the cinder-block wall behind him. He rolled over on the floor, trying to stay in motion, knowing that a body in motion, even a fat one, is harder to hit than a body at rest. He paused for a second, pistol straight out in front of him, focused on his shot, fired three times. He hit what he was aiming at, which was the circuit breaker panel over next to the door, because it erupted in a shower of sparks and the room went dark.

  “Did you get him?” The voice was high and querulous.

  “Cayete!” the man shouted. “Shut up!”

  That has to be the shooter, Marty thought, and he got to his knees, scrabbled as quickly as he could in the direction of the circuit panel, which burned momentarily and flared out. He’ll assume I’m going for the door I came in by, Marty though
t, and I’ll get over there to the far one, and by God it better not be padlocked or chained shut . . . He ran into something metallic and heavy. He grunted involuntarily as he heaved himself over it, whatever it was, heard two more shots.

  “Get a light!” It was the shooter, yelling at the first guy. “Goddamn you, go get a light!” Marty bumped into something else in the dark. This is taking too long, he thought, you’ve got to risk it . . . He inhaled, held his breath, clambered to his feet. He could smell the stink of burning wire insulation as he fumbled his way closer to his exit door. He found the wall, felt his way along, finally got to the door. He leaned against the crash bar. The exit door, long unused, opened a crack with a metallic squeal. Marty cursed silently, pushed against it harder, finally got it open. The lights in the parking lot lit him up from behind. He feinted right, but he needed to get out around the opened door and move to the left, back toward his car. He heard two more shots, hardly felt the one that hit him just above his waist. He kept moving, spun around and stumbled backward as he fired wildly at his pursuer, saw the man go down. Got you, you son of a bitch, he thought, hoping he had done it, shot his way out of a box. Now you just got to get back to the car, he told himself, and you’re home free . . .

  He ran across the blacktop, hit the grass, got almost all the way to the tree line before he realized he wasn’t going to make it. He was on his face in the grass, puzzled because he didn’t remember falling. He horsed himself to his knees, willing himself across the last few yards to the bushes along the property line. I’m ruining my pants, he thought, they’ll never get them clean . . . He rolled over on his back, exhaled, feeling the shock and numbness down below his waist. Goddamn, he thought, this is bad, and then he wondered: am I going to die here? Out here in the goddamn pucker brush? I always wanted to go like Rockefeller, I always wanted to die in the saddle . . . He wondered who would get his apartment, what they would do with all his shit. Probably just throw it all away, he thought, my whole life is gonna get stacked up on the curb to wait for the garbage truck . . . He became conscious of voices in the distance, wondered how far away they really were. He laid his pistol down in the weeds, fumbled for his cell phone with shaking hands.