“I think I got everything you asked for. I’m not sure if it’s the right stuff. That’s the first time I’ve ever been in a handy store,” Raphael said.
“Handy store?” I giggled at the term.
“You know, the place guys who are handy and fix their own stuff shop.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. Your first time?” I asked. “Really?
“Yep.” He nodded.
“I popped your handy store cherry!”
“You did!” he said with a laugh.
“If you’ve never been to a handy store, what happens if something breaks?” I looked around at Raphael’s perfect apartment. Like Raphael himself, nothing was out of place.
“I call the super. I don’t fix anything,” he said. Now that I thought about it, I couldn’t imagine him getting his hands dirty while fixing household problems.
I rummaged through the bag to see what he had bought me. It was all there, all of the elements I needed to make the detonator. “I better get busy, this could take awhile.”
“Want some coffee?” he asked.
“I’d love some,” I said.
“Max?” Raphael held up the coffee pot and pointed to it.
“No, thank you. I need something stronger than coffee right now,” he said and opened the liquor cabinet, completely at home in Raphael’s living room. He poured himself a glass of whiskey, downed it in one swallow, and poured another one. He didn’t join us at the table but instead quietly looked out the window at the city. I could almost see the gears in his head turning, going over tomorrow’s plan.
I laid out my equipment: parts on the left, tools on the right, workspace in the middle. I assembled my detonator using everyday items, and by the time I was done, it looked like a crazy jumble of wires and plastic. Despite its odd appearance, I was confident in its ability.
“That’s it! I’m done,” I said and placed the mechanism in the center of the table. I looked at the clock on the wall. It was 3:37 am.
“We should try to get in a few hours of sleep,” I said behind a yawn.
“You guys can have my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch,” Raphael offered.
“No, I don’t want to take your bed!” I protested.
“What, you afraid I got cooties?” he asked with a grin.
“Knowing you? Yeah,” Max said.
Raphael laughed. “Seriously, I planned on letting you guys use the bed. I changed the sheets earlier. Besides, you can’t both fit on the couch.”
I felt bad displacing him, but we gave in and crawled off to bed. My remorse was short lived; the bed was fantastic. The king sized mattress had crisp white sheets with a high thread count and a deep purple puffy comforter, rivaling the beds at the finest luxury resorts.
Before I saw the bedroom, I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep. When I entered, sleepiness descended on me. The bedroom had a calming effect. It had been designed perfectly for relaxation. What else would I expect from Raphael?
Max and I slid into bed and gave each other a good night kiss. He touched my breast and I knew he wanted more.
“In Raphael’s bed?” I crinkled my nose.
“Raphael’s bed was made for sex,” he answered and kissed me again, so passionately I couldn’t resist.
Given the next day’s activities, it was possible this was our last chance. If things didn’t go well, even if we were just a half a second off on our timing, we could find ourselves in jail, or worse. I didn’t want to think about that, but I was going to take advantage of the moment.
We made love fiercely, pleasuring each other as much as humanly possible, giving each other that last shot. I wanted to make sure our last time together was memorable.
When we were done, I flopped back against the pillow and closed my eyes. The exquisite bedding pulled me down easily into a deep, restful sleep.
36.
The alarm clock blasted morning radio and I hit the snooze for the third time. It was 8:30 am. After only four hours of sleep, I was not eager to jump out of bed. Max, however, rolled off the mattress and rubbed the sleep from his face, already prepared to tackle anything.
He gave me a smile and said, “Get up! We’ve got to be there in thirty minutes.”
We had a schedule of Hashimoto’s rounds. He was spending the day making speeches throughout the city, pushing the start of his campaign off with a big bang. The first one was at 9:00 am. We were prepared to follow him all day, all week even, until the opportunity presented itself to do what we had planned.
We tip-toed through the living room, not wanting to wake Raphael who was sound asleep on the couch. I scribbled a note for him and left it on the table, thanking him for all of his help. I told him we’d see him later, but really, I had no idea what the near future would hold.
We stopped at a bakery and bought croissants and coffee. My stomach was a little queasy, and I didn’t feel like eating, but I forced it down, knowing I’d need the energy to get through the day.
Our first stop was the new playground we had heard about on the news. Hashimoto was to give a speech then dig a hole in a ceremonial ground-breaking for the new swing set they were installing. We strolled through the park, hand in hand like we were out for a nice morning walk.
A crowd had gathered already. Hashimoto was there, wearing a black suit contrasted by a bright yellow hard hat emblazoned with the name of his own construction company on the front. He was smiling and waving at the crowd, working them like a true celebrity.
We watched the whole thing unfold, Hashimoto’s long boring speech about making the city child friendly, questions from the press, the crowd clapping with enthusiasm. Finally, Hashimoto took his place on the prepared section of dirt and pushed the shovel into the soft soil, lifting it so everyone could see, then dumping it neatly next to the hole. He waved to the crowd and departed. Max followed him as he rounded the corner. I followed Max.
The long black stretch limo was waiting at the curb. It was parked on a quiet side street with little traffic. The driver opened the door for his boss, who paused before getting in. He took out a cigar and lit it. We were only a few feet away and could smell the smoke as it drifted from the Yakuza’s stogie. Hashimoto sat down on the black leather seat and the driver closed the door. The window rolled down to let out the cigar smoke. A hand appeared, holding the cigar out the window, a huge ring that we immediately recognized encircling the middle finger.
“Perfect!” Max said, and looked around quickly before walking toward the limo. He thought we’d have to follow Hashimoto all day. This couldn’t have been better.
When he was about five feet from the open window, Max stepped into an alley hidden from view. He lifted his sunglasses and plucked out his eye, popping it from the socket into his hand. It wasn’t the glass marble he usually wore.
To smuggle it on the airplane, the C4 needed a simple modification. Max had given me his glass eye. It was the only one he owned and had to wear an eye patch until it was ready, making him look a bit like a pirate. I had been tempted to say “Arg, matey” to him, but refrained. I took the prosthetic and cut the back off, leaving a hollowed out glass front that still looked like an eye. I molded the putty into a round ball on the back of it, and he was able to insert it into the socket, making an indiscoverable hiding place. I took out the detonator and rammed the C4 in its place on the metal prongs. The eye sat on top looking up from the jumble of wires.
We stood in the alley in downtown Montreal, Max holding the tiny bomb. He winked at me and let his sunglasses fall back into place, hiding the vacated socket. It always gave me the creeps to see him like that, the hole exposed and empty.
He depressed the button and held it up, listening for the hiss of the fuse, then took my hand and pulled me toward the limo. Counting under his breath, “One one thousand, two one thousand.“ He passed the open window and casually tossed in the bomb, as if he were pitching a piece of trash into a garbage can. He continued his countdown, “Three one thousand, four one thousand . . .” W
e walked at a brisk pace as he counted.
We heard a puzzled voice from inside the car exclaim a muffled, “What the fuck?” an instant before a wimpy pop punctuated the air.
I turned to see a thin line of black smoke escaping the window in the limo.
“Shit. That was anti-climatic,” I said. I expected a large movie-like explosion with flames and crashing glass.
Before my disappointment settled in too far, I noticed the damage the homemade explosive had caused. A severed hand twitched on the ground next to the burning car, still wearing a large gold ring. The cigar it had been holding rolled across the pavement away from the dead fingers. I gasped and looked back at the car. The smoke grew thicker and darker, billowing out in evil clouds.
“Keep walking,” Max said, tugging on my arm to pull me away from the crime scene. Before I could take a step, the gas tank caught fire.
A second explosion, far bigger than the first, rocked the limo, making it jump as the windows blew out in a spray of glass, and flames shot from the openings. I instinctively ducked, raising my hands over my head as hot air and bits of debris rained down around us. That’s more like it! I thought.
An eerie silence followed the explosion. That silence was shattered as someone screamed nearby, and people started to run. The chaos worked to our advantage, masking our own race from the carnage.
Max pulled me down a street, away from the wreckage and curious on-lookers. We dodged down an alley and out to another street, making a mad dash to remove ourselves from our stunt.
When we had gone what felt like a safe distance, he turned down narrow passage that came out on an empty lot. He pulled me to his chest and kissed me, deeply, passionately, like he used to. When he pulled back, he started to laugh.
“An eye for an eye, eh?” That grin was back. I knew everything would be okay.
Hashimoto was gone.
Just like that, our worst nightmare was over.
“What do we do now?” I asked him.
“Let’s go home.”
“To Roatán?”
“No. Home.”
He meant the farmhouse. It was time to rebuild.
The
End
Hashimoto Blues Page 23