The Clause

by Brian Wiprud

  SPIKIC: SON OF A THOUSAND THREE-PUSSY WHORES! HE HAS PROBABLY ESCAPED, IDIOT!

  VUGOVIC: THERE IS GOOD NEWS. THE RUSSIANS TELL US UNDERWOOD HAS ARRANGED TO SELL OUR GEMS TO THE HONG KONG PEOPLE.

  SPIKIC: THIS IS GOOD NEWS? VUGO, MUST I COME OUT THERE MYSELF? YOU DISAPPOINT ME, HARD ROUND TURD.

  VUGOVIC: [UNINTELLIGIBLE]

  SPIKIC: WHAT WAS THAT?

  VUGOVIC: SIR, THIS MEANS THAT UNDERWOOD WILL BE AT A CERTAIN PLACE AT A CERTAIN TIME TO HAND OVER THE GEMS. WE HAVE TO BE THERE TO INTERCEPT HIM.

  SPIKIC: WHERE IS THE DROP?

  VUGOVIC: WE DO NOT KNOW YET.

  SPIKIC: FIND OUT.

  VUGOVIC: WE WILL, AND THEN WE WILL BE THERE. BUT HE IS STILL IN THE CITY. HE GAVE THE CHINKS THE SLIP IN QUEENS.

  SPIKIC: I SEE THE CHINESE CAN FIND HIM AND WE CANNOT. WHY IS THAT, VUGO?

  VUGOVIC: IT HELPS THAT UNDERWOOD HAS GONE TO THE CHINESE TO SELL WHAT HE HAS STOLEN FROM US. IF HE CAME TO US I CAN ASSURE YOU WE WOULD NOT HAVE LET HIM SLIP AWAY, AND HE WOULD BE DINING ON HIS OWN TESTICLES AT THIS VERY MOMENT.

  SPIKIC: I HOPE I DO NOT DETECT IN YOUR TONE THAT YOU TREAT ME AS YOU WOULD A GRANDMOTHER, OR YOU WILL FIND A MEAL OF YOUR OWN LOINS IN A POT OF ONIONS.

  VUGOVIC: I HAVE NOTHING BUT RESPECT FOR YOU, SIR. I WAS JUST EXPLAINING.

  SPIKIC: EXPLAIN ALL YOU WANT BUT FIND THOSE GEMS AND TEAR THE ENTRAILS FROM UNDERWOOD ACROSS THE ROAD. THE ISRAELIS ARE NERVOUS BECAUSE OF THE DELAY. THEY FEAR THE FBI IS LISTENING TO OUR EVERY WORD, THAT WE ARE SETTING THEM UP.

  VUGOVIC: I DON’T THINK ANY OF US COULD HAVE ANTICIPATED UNDERWOOD STUMBLING UPON THE GEMS AND TAKING THEM. IT WAS A CRAP IN THE PANTS, THAT’S ALL. NOW WE CHANGE PANTS.

  SPIKIC: WHAT OF THE CUBAN WE GRABBED? HAS HE BEEN USEFUL?

  VUGOVIC: THE COPS ARRESTED OUR INTERROGATOR AND TOOK THE CUBAN. BUT RAMÓN HAD NO BETTER INFORMATION EVEN WHEN CHIMPED. THE CUBANS WERE CONVINCED UNDERWOOD WENT TO THE BEACH.

  SPIKIC: WHICH SOLDIER DID THE COPS GRAB?

  VUGOVIC: THE STUPID ONE, DUSKO. HE DID NOT PROPERLY RESTRAIN THE CUBAN’S SCREAMS AND SO GOT CAUGHT. LET HIM EAT HIS MOTHER’S PUSSY, THE HOMOSEXUAL BOSNIAK. HE KNOWS NOTHING THAT COULD HURT US, AND IS SOLID ENOUGH TO NEVER TALK ANYWAY.

  SPIKIC: CUT HIM LOOSE. WHAT IS YOUR NEXT MOVE?

  VUGOVIC: UNDERWOOD MUST STAY SOMEPLACE OVERNIGHT. A FRIEND, A MOTEL, SOMEPLACE. WE ARE WORKING THE HOTELS. WE ARE ALSO TRYING TO FIND HOW HE MOVES ABOUT. TAXIS, BUSES PERHAPS. HE LEFT HIS VEHICLE. AND WE HAD SOMEONE WATCHING HIS VAN, THE ONE HE USES FOR BUSINESS, IN A PARKING LOT BEHIND A GAS STATION ON RIVER ROAD. HE HAS NOT GONE TO IT. WE DISABLED THE VEHICLE SO HE CANNOT USE IT, THOUGH I DON’T THINK HE HAS ANY INTENTION OF COMING ANYWHERE NEAR THE VAN SO WE HAVE STOPPED WATCHING IT. IN HIS GARAGE THERE WAS EVIDENCE OF A MOTORCYCLE. WE THINK HE MAY BE RIDING ONE, THOUGH NONE IS REGISTERED TO HIS NAME AND WE HAVE NO IDEA WHAT KIND YET. THE FRUIT ON THIS TREE IS STILL RIPE. WE WILL SHAKE IT DOWN, SIR, FEAR NOT.

  SPIKIC: I ONLY FEAR FOR YOU, VUGO, IF WE DO NOT COLLECT THE HUNDRED AND FIFTY MILLION FOR THE GEMS.

  VUGOVIC: THERE IS A POSSIBILITY THAT WE CAN TAKE FROM THE CHINKS WHAT THEY ARE GOING TO PAY UNDERWOOD. ASSUMING THEY PLAN TO PAY HIM ANYTHING AND NOT JUST TAKE THE GEMS.

  SPIKIC: I LIKE THE WAY YOU THINK. STAY ON IT. CALL ME IN THE MORNING WITH GOOD NEWS. I AM FUCKING TITO’S WIFE AGAIN NOW, SO DON’T BOTHER ME UNTIL THEN.

  VUGOVIC: WE WILL BE VIGILANT.

  *END*

  Twenty

  South on River Road, I drove through the intersection of Bulls Ferry Road. Had I made a right there, up the steep and curvy road to the top and made a left, I would have arrived where Doc was waiting at 77th and Boulevard East.

  Instead, I pulled over just south of Bulls Ferry Road next to a chainlink fence and gate. The bike’s kickstand down, I dismounted and shouldered the saddle bag. The gate was loosely chained, so there was room enough to slip into the construction yard. Ahead in the dark before me loomed a large notch cut into the Palisades cliff. Developers like Tito were expanding the notch south so they could squeeze a mall right up against the cliff face, a sheer drop from Boulevard East. When I looked up in the dark I could see where Boulevard East bridged the top of the notch—at 77th Street. The streetlight there shimmered brightly.

  I weaved between large CAT excavators lined up in the middle of the site and rang Doc.

  “Where are you? I’ve been waiting, Gill. It’s half past eleven.”

  “I was taking care of Trudy.”

  “How is she? Did the herbalist help?”

  “He did. She’s better, good enough to travel tomorrow.”

  “So where are you?”

  “I’m here.”

  “I don’t see you.”

  “Are you at the streetlight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is the stuff in a volleyball?”

  “Yes.”

  “Throw the ball over the fence.”

  “Over the fence? Down there?”

  “Don’t stall, Doc. Do it.”

  “Gill, stop playing games and let me hand you the stupid ball.”

  I stood at some brush at the base of the cliff. Looking up, I couldn’t see Doc, but there was a chute in the cliff face leading down to me from about where she stood at the streetlight.

  “Now who’s playing games, Doc? Your Hong Kong friends are probably right there in the shadows waiting to sandbag me. Am I right? I better see that ball coming my way in five seconds. And don’t even toss it if there’s nothing inside. Because any monkey business and I’m walking. I’ll take the sparks to the Italians, or the Corporation, any of a dozen others who …”

  Above I saw the white sphere rise up over the fence and pass into the shadow of the cliff. At a ledge, it bounced out and away from the rock face, glanced off some bushes, and came to a rest about ten feet up the chute in some vines. It was good that I’d insisted on a volleyball—the white made it easy to see in the gloom.

  I scrambled up the chute, knocked the volleyball down, and then stepped on it to burst the seal. Didn’t seem to be booby trapped. So I shook out the contents: sure enough, they came up with the paper and the tickets.

  “Got it, Doc.”

  “See? No double cross, Gill. This is on the up and up.”

  “We’ll see about that. I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon to arrange the exchange. My cut is ten million: two million in hundreds, the rest in Guatemalan bearer bonds.”

  Bearer bonds issued by U.S. banks became heavily scrutinized for obvious reasons, and no crooks use them anymore. Guatemala saw an opportunity and issued bearer bonds in denominations of two hundred thousand U.S. dollars. Guat bonds quickly became the tender of choice for cartels when they exchanged large sums.

  “Guat bonds? By tomorrow?”

  “That’s a huge bargain, so don’t dick me over, Doc.”

  “Gill …”

  Phone #2: off, battery out. I tossed the flattened volleyball aside. Tucking the goodies in my belly bag, I jogged back to the Nighthawk. If I stayed there a second longer than I had to, likely as not the Hong Kong friends would be around my neck.

  I slipped through the gate and hopped on my bike.

  Behind me at Bulls Ferry Road I heard a roar. A black Hummer thundered down the steep road and exploded in sparks when it bottomed out at River Road. The Hummer restarted its engine, revving it.

  I guessed the Hong Kong friends weren’t going to let this go my way if they could help it.

  I started the bike and kicked her into gear, racing south on River Road and away from my hideaway at Fred’s. I put the spurs to the Nighthawk past the medical center on my left and the water treatment plant and car wash on my right. At the Bulls Ferry townhouses I made a left and slipped around the candy-striped arm barrier onto Lydia Drive.


  I motored to the end of the lane and a T-intersection of sleepy townhouses nestled in the trees.

  There was a screech behind me. The Hummer crashed right through the arm gate, headed my way.

  Straight ahead was a path to the riverwalk, a ribbon of boardwalk that hugged the river along the Gold Coast, a place for a peaceful stroll across from midtown Manhattan’s glowing spectacle. My motorcycle fit easily down the path, and when I hit the riverwalk I made a right. If I’d gone left there would have been no place to go; the riverwalk was interrupted by the medical center and dead-ended. I hoped the Hummer didn’t see where I went. Ahead the riverwalk went south about a mile and a half to the Port Imperial Ferry Terminal, and beyond. A man in a tracksuit smoking a cigar sat on a bench, a small dog at his feet.

  “Hey, douchebag, you can’t ride that here! This is the riverwalk. No motor vehicles. Can’t you read signs?”

  Behind me was the sound of a bulldozer coming through a thicket.

  The Hummer burst through the path, shrubs and trash cans plowed out ahead of it.

  The guy on the bench was on his feet, his cigar on the ground, dog hiding behind his legs.

  I kicked the Nighthawk into gear and shot straight down the riverwalk, zipping by pleasant benches and period lampposts. About a third of a mile along, the brick pathway made a hard right turn, followed by a couple other ninety-degree turns and another straightaway about a quarter-mile long, until the next turns into the Port Imperial Ferry Terminal. Those turns would slow the Hummer down considerably. I hoped. The trick was to cover the third of a mile faster than the Hummer, or at least not get shot, as stupid as that would be for them to do. Bottoming out the Hummer was stupid, too.

  I flew past other pedestrians taking the night air, lights coming on in some of the townhouses as they heard my Honda, the echo of the Hummer gaining. Fancy lampposts flicked by as I rumbled across two wood bridges, Manhattan a blur on my left beyond the bulkhead.

  With the Hummer about three hundred feet back I made the first turn, my wheels chirping as the motorcycle fishtailed. A couple hundred feet along I made the next turn left along the walk and shot a glance back. The Hummer was still roaring along, gears howling as it rumbled around the turns.

  I was pretty sure the riverwalk ended at Arthur’s Landing and Pershing Road, which went back up the cliff to the top. There was some construction at Arthur’s Landing, right at a restaurant of the same name that went bust. It was confusing how the barricades were set up there, and I hoped I could lose the Hummer permanently among the Jersey barriers. Even a Hummer can’t barge through giant blocks of concrete.

  The next switchback came at Riverwalk Place, where the brick walkway met a circular drive ringed with tall art deco monuments. I raced toward the circle, up a pedestrian ramp, and out the other side and back onto the riverwalk. I’d cut the corner. Right in front of a rent-a-cop car. I just saw the cop’s eyes, wide and white, as I passed. I went right and then left again.

  Behind me was a thump. I looked back. The little security car was sinking in the river, the Hummer regaining control after colliding with it. Bad luck for the security guy.

  By the time I’d made the next turns, the ferry terminal was large before me, a giant curve of blue and luminous glass at the river’s edge.

  I changed my mind about Arthur’s Landing when I heard a gunshot behind me. I’d rather not have done what I did next but there were few options. I squealed down the ferry parking lot drive to the traffic light at River Road. It was red, and there were cars passing in both directions.

  Across the road was the light rail station, which serviced a two-car tram that connected Hoboken to the Port Imperial Ferry and destinations west. The system was only a couple years old.

  The Hummer scuttered off the riverwalk and about eight hundred feet directly behind me. There were sirens in the distance.

  I found my opening and shot across River Road’s six lanes and onto the far brick sidewalk. I crossed through a small sculpture garden and a bus and taxi queue before I reached the pedestrian grade crossing to the train platform. This was the first set of tracks, the ones that headed west to the Tonnelle Avenue station deeper in New Jersey. The Port Imperial station was in front of me, new and slick-looking, all brickwork, with pitched-roof green canopies over the benches.

  I looked at Tito’s watch.

  It was going on midnight.

  The trains stopped running at midnight. At least I thought so.

  To my left and south the tracks stayed hard to the side of River Road; to the right and north, the tracks turned west into a giant hole in the Palisades cliff face. The tunnel went for a mile or more through the Palisades and solid rock. Lights in the tunnel dotted the way into the distance until they seemed to come together. There was a set of tracks in each direction. What were the chances two trains would come, one in each direction, even if the trains were running?

  I tried to picture the next stop heading west. It was the Bergenline Avenue station, which was completely underground and only accessible by elevator. If I tried to exit the tunnel there, how would I get my bike up onto the platform and into the elevators? I knew after that station and before Tonnelle station the tracks came out of the tunnel and were in an open cut. I thought maybe the Nighthawk might make it up those slopes. Either that or I would have to abandon the bike and climb over the fence.

  Honking and squawking tires behind me meant the black Hummer was headed my way.

  No trains in sight. I goosed the bike onto the tracks, heading for the tunnel.

  I rumbled down the center of the tracks on the concrete ties until I could pop out to the side and ride on the gravel. The tunnel was well lit with orange overhead lamps. A warm, swampy breeze flowed through the tunnel from the meadowland marshes on the other side of the Palisades. Cameras at the entrance were trained on the tracks, along with a warning sign about the dangers of

  trespassing. I wondered if anybody was watching at that hour. I had to assume they were. There might be police waiting for me at the next station if I set off alarms. I paused. Was there another option? I suddenly didn’t like this one, and looked back at the station.

  That black Hummer was determined. It flattened a fence and rolled onto the tracks behind me.

  I snaked the motorcycle around a fence and into the tunnel, next to the westbound tracks. The Hummer started after me. I roared down the tunnel, the Nighthawk’s roar thundering off the walls and hammering my helmet.

  A quarter-mile in, I slowed and looked back, the orange dots tracing back to the black tunnel entrance. The Hummer was hot on my tail.

  That was the bad news.

  The good news was that when I turned forward, a train was coming, going the other direction. I really wasn’t sure the Hummer—wide as it was—could get past the tram. I could, of course, and raced past the tram, whose driver honked angrily at me until he saw the Hummer.

  I heard the scream of the tram’s brakes but didn’t look back.

  The Bergenline station was still new and slick-looking, with shiny tile and brushed aluminum. An angry black woman in a New Jersey Transit uniform was punching a fist at me as I passed, but I couldn’t hear what she was barking. My ears were filled with the Nighthawk’s reverb against the station walls. The bright lights of the station were behind me as I continued west into the orange glow of the tunnel. Ahead I could already see the night at the place where the tunnel exited the rock. I stole a look behind me. Nothing.

  In the night air again, I found that there was a service road on the right side of the tracks, one made of fine gravel, so I hopped the bike onto it.

  The slopes to either side of the tracks were thick with vines and brush. Even if I abandoned the bike, it would take me awhile to swim through all the vegetation, and I’d probably get terminal poison ivy.

  In the distance I could see the Tonnelle Avenue
station, and the flashing lights of cop cars.

  Then some luck. The road I was on next to the tracks swung right and up the slope, though the brush, to the railway fence and a chainlink gate. Beyond the gate was a truck parking lot. The gate must have been a way for the railway to bring in maintenance vehicles.

  My bolt cutters dropped the gate’s lock. Engine off, I rolled my bike through the truck lot of the Peruvian food importer and to the road fronting the building. It was 51st Street. I looked both ways, figuring that any cop I ran into would be looking for a renegade troublemaker on a bike. I started her up, slowly made a right, and quickly found myself at the intersection of JFK Boulevard, made a left, then my first possible right, a left, a right: I was weaving my way quietly back north and east to Edgewater and Fred’s place on small streets where I hoped to avoid cops.

  I wondered if Fred had any Old Crow in his liquor cabinet. The night had almost done me in.

  Stopping a block away from the Garber house, I shouldered my saddle bag and hiked uphill on the ribbon sidewalk past peaceful, slumbering homes. When I got to the intersection I looked carefully around the corner toward the Garber place.

  All seemed quiet out front.

  But at the next intersection down, I saw what looked like the nose of a patrol car, its reflectors shining in the yellow street light.

  I circled around and walked up that block, past the little white houses. Ahead I could make out the stenciling on the back of the patrol car, EDGEWATER POLICE, and there were two cops sitting in it. Waiting. Watching Fred’s.

  I scratched my head. Were they watching it because of their earlier visit, just a hunch? Or was it because of my recent antics, someone marked down my plate, and even though it was long expired, maybe they had a record that the plates were never turned in, and the two cops who stopped by noticed a bike out front that was gone and so was I? Or were these cops on the payroll of the Corporation, or the Russians?

  I sighed. Didn’t really matter. I had to get out of Edgewater, and not on the bike; it was poison. Bad enough that every cop around was looking for it, but it had also been through a number of tollbooths and airport license-plate scanners. And who knew how many facial-recognition scanners had profiled me with the bike?