The Bouncer

by David Gordon

  She gave him a kiss. “I’m going to agree,” she said. “Only because you’re being so cute.”

  It was decided that she would steal the getaway car from the long-term section of the garage in their building and then wait, idling on the street outside, to take them both to the airport when he was done.

  Adrian called in the Three Stooges, who were camped out in a nearby hotel, watching pay-per-view porn. Really their names were Amar, Troy, and Mike, and they were all members of the cell Adrian had worked with in Europe, but Heather called them Larry, Curly, and Moe, because they always showed up together and because they were, in her mind, mere flunkies. But now she greeted them warmly and served coffee, while Adrian told them what they needed to know.

  Meanwhile Heather prepared the money. They had nothing like a million in cash and had never planned to pay that much to anyone. They took the real cash, crisp new hundreds, and used it, top and bottom, on stacks of blank paper cut to size, then banded. They also took a large amount of counterfeit cash produced in North Korea—decent but not anything they’d risk spending here themselves—and used that to form a layer, like a bed of lettuce, along the bottom of the large zip bag, the kind gym coaches use to carry balls or other equipment. The effect was pretty good. It would pass a quick glance, which was all they needed. At that point, however things went, the count wouldn’t matter. Someone would be dead.

  Then with a kiss and a “See you later,” Heather hopped onto the elevator, carrying a small case with the items they were taking: fake passports, real money, jewelry, toothbrushes, and underwear. She rode down to the parking levels and got in the silver Mercedes she’d decided to steal earlier. It took her less than a minute to disable the alarm and go. She exited, using the card key the owner had left on the dash, turning her face from the cameras. Then she slid into a spot by a hydrant, right beside the entry- and exit-way. She put the car in park but left the engine running. If the cops came she’d smile sweetly and say she was waiting for her husband, and most likely, in her experience, they’d leave her alone.

  Then Adrian and his men went down, locking the apartment behind them. They got off on parking level four. Larry took up a position at the curving concrete wall, where he could see down into level three. He assembled his rifle. Next the other two men got in the car, also stolen, that they had left there, a plain four-door Camry, something no one would notice. Curly drove, while Moe sat in the passenger seat, pistol in his lap.

  Last, Adrian began walking along the curved ramp, parked cars on either side, descending to level three, where he stopped when he saw a man walking toward him.

  “You must be Joe,” Adrian said.

  46

  Joe and Yelena walked from Penn Station to the meeting spot, which was just a few blocks away. As they passed Heather in the silver Mercedes, she thought she recognized them, vaguely, from the park, though it was hard to be sure. As they passed the parking attendant in his booth, Joe waved casually and he waved back. To him they were just another rich couple, a man in a dark suit and a well-dressed, attractive woman, fetching their car or taking the elevators upstairs. But as soon as they had walked up the ramp and out of sight, Yelena took off running. Keeping to the wall, hiding behind cars, she chose a position toward the bottom of level three from which she could cover Joe. She took her rifle from her backpack and waited.

  Joe walked at a deliberate pace, hands by his side. He had his handgun, the 9mm Sig, in his waistband and the plastic case in his left side pocket. In his right was an extra loaded clip. As he came up the ramp to level three, he kept his eyes straight ahead, though he knew Yelena was somewhere to his right. Then he saw a man in a black T-shirt and linen walking shorts holding a big zip bag.

  “You must be Joe,” the man called.

  “Hi, Adrian!”

  Adrian walked forward a few more paces.

  “Hold it, Adrian,” Joe called. “Not so close.”

  “I’m unarmed, Joe,” he said. “Look …” He dropped the bag and turned, holding his shirt up. “Do you have the item?”

  Joe took the plastic case out and showed it. “Can you unzip the bag and show the money?” he asked.

  Adrian unzipped the bag and displayed a large green salad.

  “Okay,” Joe said. “Let’s do it.”

  Adrian zipped the bag and then threw it so that it landed at Joe’s feet. Joe grabbed it. Then, underhand, he tossed the case so that it arced high. Adrian caught it, and just at that moment, Joe heard a shot ring out from behind him.

  “Sniper!” Yelena yelled as she fired, and Joe dived right. Larry, who had been aiming at Joe, dropped like a shot bird from above and hit the floor with her bullet in him. At the same time, the Camry, which had been moving down the ramp, pulled up alongside Adrian. Curly stepped out behind the open passenger door and opened fire, missing Joe as he landed behind a car, but winging Yelena, who had stood to shoot, exposing herself as a target.

  “Fuck,” she muttered. Joe crawled over, drawing his gun and firing as Adrian and Curly dashed for cover.

  “Bad?” Joe asked her.

  “Nyet,” she said, and smiled grimly. “Just a grazing.”

  Still, the bullet had carved a slice from the meat of her arm and the blood was beginning to ooze.

  “Here,” he said, pulling his tie off and wrapping it tight around her arm. Then he took off his jacket and put it over her shoulders, where it would hide the wound.

  “Too bad you did all the dope,” she told him.

  He laughed. “Sorry about that.” He gave her the money bag. “Go find a doctor,” he said, and then, before she could say anything, he started to run up the ramp. She fired her whole magazine, trying to give him cover, and then she ran.

  Moving up the ramp, with Yelena’s bullets streaking over him, Joe saw Adrian running back toward the stairs and took a shot at him, without luck. Curly had taken cover back inside the car, and now that they saw Joe coming toward them, Moe stepped on the gas, flooring it. They could plow over Joe and keep going, making their escape while covering Adrian’s as well.

  When Joe saw the car coming straight for him, he sped up, reaching the center of level three, where the floor flattened out, and then, facing the oncoming car, he started shooting while running right at it. Shooting while running full speed is less than ideal, so his first shot was a bit high, striking the upper portion of the shatterproof windshield. The next shot was on target, chipping the glass through which Moe was staring back at him, bearing down, but the slug still bounced off, landing somewhere on the ground. The third shot struck just above the chip, and a star appeared. The fourth spidered the windshield. The fifth shattered it, and the glass crumbled onto the dash and onto Curly’s and Moe’s laps. The sixth shot killed Moe.

  As he fired the sixth shot, Joe, who had been running flat out with his right arm extended stiffly and shooting while his left arm pumped, realized that he had only a few feet left to go before the speeding car struck him. There was no time to dive clear now, and nowhere to go, with parked cars on either side. When his sixth bullet hit, exploding Moe’s head in a red burst, Joe did the only thing he could think of. He jumped onto the car.

  Joe jumped forward, as though in a track meet, leaping up, right leg extended, and coming down with his right foot on the hood of the onrushing car. As it sped beneath him, Joe took another stride, with his left foot now landing on the roof. At this point he stumbled and took another off-kilter stride, his right foot touching down on the trunk, as the car, with the driver dead, veered left. Joe tumbled, ass over head, rolling off the trunk and onto the concrete floor as the vehicle struck a parked car and stopped.

  Joe rolled, momentum carrying him over, tightly grasping his gun, and the upward slope of the rising floor stopped him. He jumped up, slightly dizzy, waving his gun while he got his bearings. He saw the Camry, smashed against the parked car, airbags inflated, and started to run toward it, gun pointed.

  He came up on the passenger side, since he knew the driver
was gone. Curly, banged up but alive, was fighting his airbag and trying desperately to get his seat belt off so that he could get out of the car.

  “Glad you wore your belt,” Joe said, and shot him behind the ear. He checked quickly for guns, but there was none in sight. No doubt, on impact, they’d bounced around the car and landed out of reach. Joe turned and ran again, this time toward the stairwell where Adrian had gone. He had two bullets left.

  47

  In the stairwell, Joe heard an alarm squawking and ran up the steps to where an emergency door stood ajar. A security guard was just coming through.

  “Thank God,” Joe told him. “Sir, we need help. There’s been an accident.”

  “Where?” the guard asked.

  “Next level,” Joe said, pointing downstairs. As the guard passed him, Joe yanked the Taser from his belt.

  “Hey,” the guard said, turning toward him, and Joe fired. The jolt knocked the guard back against the wall and he crumpled to the ground. Joe took his hat—a ball cap with SECURITY written on the front—his walkie-talkie, and the little tin badge he had pinned to his shirt. He had no gun.

  Joe walked through the door, pulling it shut behind him. The alarm stopped. He spoke into the walkie-talkie: “Level three door secure.”

  “That you, Tim?” the radio said. “Base to Tim. Over.”

  “Yeah. Tim to base. All okay,” Joe mumbled through his cupped hand into the radio. “Base, my radio is acting up,” he added, then threw it into a trash can.

  He entered the mall, pinning the badge to his white shirt. There were shops and restaurants and a milling crowd of tourists around him. He tipped his hat to a family. “Howdy, folks.”

  “How-dee?” the mom replied in a thick German accent.

  He continued to move through the crowd, scanning for Adrian. He caught a glimpse of him—black T-shirt, linen shorts—riding the escalator up. Joe started running.

  “Security, sorry, security,” he said, brushing through shoulders and fanny packs. He pushed his way up the escalator, climbing over bags and strollers. Then Adrian looked back and saw him.

  Adrian broke into a run, shoving people aside. A lady in heels toppled as he clambered over her. A man dropped his iced coffee on a kid in a stroller who wailed, while Joe squeezed by as fast as he could. Then, as Adrian reached the top of the escalator, a muscled, inked guy in a T-shirt and shorts felt Adrian push him and pushed back. “Yo, dude!”

  Adrian punched Yo Dude in the throat and, as he gurgled, shoved him back down the escalator onto the people behind him. There was a scramble as they struggled with his bulk. Traffic piled up.

  Seeing Adrian get off the escalator, and blocked by the crowding above him, Joe jumped onto the barrier that ran between the up and down sides. “Watch out—security!” he called as he climbed up, trying not to step on too many fingers. He hopped onto the moving handrail as he neared the top, riding like a surfer and grabbing a few passing heads for balance, then jumped down onto the next floor. He checked the crowd. A yell and a crash rang out from a dining area. Adrian had knocked over a waiter.

  Joe raced after him, hopping over the crouching waiter, who was cleaning up his spilled tray. “Sorry,” he said as he banged into a busboy trying to refill some glasses. Ice water tumbled over the table and onto the laps of the guests. Adrian glanced back at him, then cut through the tables and headed across the floor for the elevators. One was arriving. The doors slid open, disgorging a full load of passengers.

  Realizing he’d never get through in time, Joe pushed to the head of a long banquet table, full of well-dressed celebrators sharing food and wine. He put one hand on a lady’s bare shoulder and another on a man’s bald head and vaulted himself onto the table.

  “Excuse me,” he called as he ran down the table, trying to step lightly, but kicking over plates and glasses. A woman screamed as wine splashed onto her dress. A man’s salad was dumped in his lap. Joe leaped right over the elderly gentleman at the end of the table, who was still holding his wineglass up, frozen in shock, mid-toast.

  Joe broke into a sprint as he saw Adrian join the crowd of passengers boarding the elevator. Elbows locked like a lineman’s, he plowed through the crowd, shoving shoppers, and upon seeing the doors closing, he sprang, arm outstretched, and slid a wrist between them.

  From inside the packed elevator, Adrian saw Joe’s hand intrude between the doors. He grabbed his fingers and bent them back, trying to break them, while blocking the crowd’s view with his body. “I think he’s stuck!” he said to the others.

  The doors bounced open, and Joe’s other fist came through, punching Adrian in the side of the head. He jerked back, still holding Joe’s wrist, and mashed into the crowd, while Joe pushed aboard. Now the two men were pressed against each other, held in place by the jam of bodies surrounding them. Joe was squeezed between a heavyset couple in matching shorts and T-shirts with each other’s faces on them, a woman with a baby in a sling, a teenage girl with headphones on, and a fashionably dressed young man loaded with shopping bags.

  Adrian swiftly punched Joe with an uppercut, knocking the young man’s sunglasses off, too. “Hey,” the man complained, feeling for the lost glasses.

  In return, Joe headbutted Adrian, who rebounded off the teenage girl. Adrian kneed Joe in the groin, and Joe, swiveling to avoid it, knocked into the T-shirt couple, who pushed back as Joe stomped his foot onto Adrian’s toes. Adrian kicked Joe in the shin and brought an elbow up. Joe ducked and Adrian’s shot glanced off the baby, who began to scream. Afraid that he’d hurt the baby, Joe turned away, and Adrian got a chance to poke him in the eye. Joe winced. Momentarily blinded, he stumbled back as the door opened on the floor above. Passengers spilled out. Blinking his eye clear, Joe saw Adrian hurry down the hall. This was a residential floor with apartments on both sides. A middle-aged Asian lady was unlocking her door while balancing several packages. Adrian pushed her aside and entered the apartment as Joe came running over.

  “Security!” he told the stunned woman, and rushed past her, entering her home. He chased Adrian around a long white dining room table and into the all-white living room, where a middle-aged Asian man in sweats was practicing putting on a white carpet. He looked up in shock as Adrian shoved him over and took his club. Adrian swung the club at Joe, whipping it back and forth, while Joe ducked and jumped. Then he smashed it hard into the sliding glass door to the terrace, shattering the glass, and hopped through, hurling the club back at Joe. Joe knocked the club away and pursued him, stepping onto the terrace just in time to see Adrian climb over the partition and onto the neighbor’s side. Joe climbed over, too.

  The neighbors were having a party. A bunch of kids sat at a long table wearing party hats and blowing kazoos, while parents milled around, drinking beer. A dad worked the grill, flipping burgers, while a mom served them from a platter. There were presents stacked in a corner and a cake to one side. No one moved. The grown-ups stared in shock and the kids in wonder as Adrian ran through the party and then jumped, busting through the bamboo screen that blocked off their view of the neighboring terrace on the other side.

  Joe ran after him, yelling, “Security,” and bounded onto the next terrace, which was full of plants. He crashed through some potted palms and fell onto a chaise longue, hopping up as Adrian ran through the open door into a bedroom, where a Mediterranean couple were having sex. Eyes shut, clad only in jewelry, the curvy woman was riding the man, bouncing hard and smacking his woolly chest while techno music blared. Her eyes opened just as Joe passed by, and she screamed, screaming even louder when she saw the crowd of kids in party hats watching from the terrace, some still munching on burgers and franks.

  Joe chased Adrian through the living room, which was full of modern art, and back out into the hall. Skittering around a corner, he saw him going for the stairs. He ran into the stairwell and heard his steps drumming above him. Adrian was heading up.

  48

  Yelena ran. After she was hit and Joe bound her arm and le
ft her with the money, she did what she could to help him, emptying her weapon to provide cover. Then, turning to flee, she was stopped in her tracks by the sight of Joe running straight at the car and firing into the windshield. She felt certain she was watching him die. But his next shot killed the driver, and just before getting run down, he leaped onto the hood, scampering over the speeding car, and jumping off the trunk. When the car crashed it seemed to snap her back into reality. She was wounded, soon cops would come, and, for now at least, Joe was alive. So she ran.

  She ran down to the street level and then slowed to a casual stroll, Joe’s jacket draped over her shoulders, hiding the wound, and the money bag slung as though she’d been shopping. She smiled at the guard and he grinned. Then she cut in front of a parked silver Mercedes and waded into traffic for a cab. She found one, finally, a block later, and, slumping in the back, she gave the driver an address in Brooklyn.

  Later, when she’d been fixed up and had a chance to rest, she sorted the money. Some was just scrap paper. Some was counterfeit, decent quality, probably North Korean, and she burned it. The remainder was $50,000. Less the five she owed her Russian contacts for expenses, that came to fifteen each for Juno, her, and Joe, if he survived.

  49

  Joe reached the roof. He pounded up ten flights after Adrian and pushed through the exit door. At first there was nothing but the vague oceanic roar of wind and city, and a blazing white sun in a blue sky. Gun drawn, he came around to the west side of the building. And there was Adrian, standing by the edge, holding the glass vial out over the railing. The empty plastic case was on the roof before him.

  “For fuck’s sake, you must be in good shape,” Adrian said, catching his breath. “If I live through the next five minutes, I am definitely getting back on the treadmill.”

  Joe moved closer, slowly, keeping his gun trained on Adrian.