I was getting it, though. Rad seemed to be recovering, his breathing evening out.
So I readied myself to deliver a kill shot.
Before I could deliver it, the tables dramatically turned on me.
A subdued pop sounded.
The window on the passenger side of the car rained glass in on me.
A large shadowy form edged forward.
“TAKE A USED SPARK plug,” Conrad said in a sandpaper rasp, each word making him wince. He coughed and cleared what sounded like a pound of dust and grit from his throat. The lines in his face eased, and his breathing seemed to settle. He took another moment before continuing. “Break off the white porcelain part with a hammer. Throw the remaining piece at the car window, hard, and let it rain, let it rain. Hardly makes a sound, and shatters that bad boy like nobody’s business. You have to love it.”
Shepard Calabrese, Conrad’s number one sgarrista, was now part of our little pow-wow.
Two versus one.
Terrible odds for me.
Unlike Rad, you could call Shepard whatever you wanted and not get a response from him. He rarely, if ever, spoke. The word was that the few that had heard him utter a word or two weren’t around afterward to discuss what he sounded like, that they were buried in the end zone at the Meadowlands with Jimmy Hoffa. That didn’t stop speculation, though. If anything it fueled it. Some said Shepard didn’t have a tongue. Others said his voice sounded like it came from an electrolarynx, the artificial voice aid used by throat cancer survivors. Whatever the case, Conrad and Shepard controlled North Jersey as though it was their own personal kingdom. They anointed themselves as gods. Gods that expected more than a paltry ten percent tithe. And one way or another they got it.
I was immediately angry at myself for letting Shepard get the drop on me. Should’ve known he wasn’t too far behind Conrad. Birds of a feather…
Once inside my vehicle, Shepard, a giant of a man even larger than me, had reached inside his jacket lining and come out with a sock filled with BBs, the sock wrapped securely at the neck with duct tape. Shepard’s trademark weapon. I’d heard stories about his sap also, but had never actually seen it before. Thought it might be an urban legend, just like the theories about his voice. Wrong. The sap looked heavy. And it was. I was biting down on my molars against the pain in the side of my face as proof of its heft. Blood crawled down the side of my head like a tear. Shepard sat calmly in my passenger seat as if nothing had taken place between us. I guess in his way of thinking nothing actually had. For him violence was like the sun, taken for granted, expected to appear on a daily basis. I didn’t take it quite as for granted anymore.
“JW cost me a buck fifty once,” Conrad announced. “Did I ever tell you that, Shep?”
If Shepard shook his head or nodded I didn’t notice it.
“Baltimore Ravens,” Conrad said. “Spread was just a couple points. His man beat him for a late touchdown. Tight end had dreadlocks as long as Yao Ming’s dick, let ‘em hang right out of his helmet like Troy Polamalu, the Samoan on the Steelers. You’d think our football hero would have grabbed hold of the dude’s naps, or something. No sir. Touchdown dance in the end zone. My money flushed like shit.”
“He played that game with a bum hamstring,” I said, not sure why I was explaining even as I spoke.
“We’ll just add that buck fifty to your tab,” he replied.
I said, “Let’s just—”
“Shut. The. Fuck. Up!” Conrad barked, and then touched his throat, grimacing. The pain was a big pill. It took him a moment to swallow it down. Softly, carefully, he said, “Here’s a newsflash for you. You’re not exactly in prime bargaining position here, my friend. I’d keep that in mind if I were you.”
“I’ll meet you alone somewhere someday,” I told him.
“I don’t catch enough movies,” he replied. “And I haven’t used my NetFlix in a month of Sundays. I know you’re partial to Clint Eastwood, though, so I’m guessing that’s something Dirty Harry said. Am I right?”
I didn’t answer.
He frowned. “I’ll meet you alone somewhere someday. John Wayne?”
“What do you want from me, Rad?”
He laughed. “More contemporary? Bruce Willis? Vin Diesel? Ooh…Training Day Denzel.”
Next to me, Shepard came to life, tapping his sap against his free palm. That was the only sound in the car because I fell into the shadow of silence. Two versus one weren’t good odds. I couldn’t fool myself into believing the lies my brain was telling my fists, either.
Rad said, “My offer still stands, Shell. You can leave Newark unharmed.”
I touched my bleeding head, snorted.
“That little boo-boo? Consider that unharmed,” he said.
He was probably right again.
“Why do you need me gone so badly?” I asked after awhile.
“Need? I don’t need anything from you, Shell. That’s your arrogance speaking. I just want you gone. I don’t like you. Don’t want you anywhere in Taj’s vicinity. You’re trouble with a capital T. Always have been, always will be. There’s no mystery to that. I just sleep so much better at night without you around. Death seems to follow you. Do you need me to keep going?”
I’d touched a nerve. Despite his throat, he’d turned into a chatterbox.
I smiled. “Taj and her son—”
“Are none of your concern,” he cut me off. “And don’t be stupid enough to continue the conversation. Get lost. Last time I make the offer. Either way, you’re getting lost. Shepard and I can handle it our way, or we can be charitable and just get you to the AirTrain after you’ve paid your debt. I’ll give you a second to decide.”
He hummed the tune from Jeopardy, proud of himself, smiling the entire time.
“What’s it gonna be, Shell?” he asked at song end.
“Don’t think you won’t pay for this,” I said.
“Yes, yes, absolutely, Clint. I’ll be looking over my shoulder all of my days, Duke.”
“Nevada is no prostitute,” I said.
“You hung up on that?” He tsked. “I just thought of something. Isn’t prostitution legal in Nevada? Fitting I’d say.”
“Fuck you.”
“Shepard,” he said.
A moment later I was biting down on more pain, a second blood tear crawling down the side of my face.
“You always were too tough for your own good, Shell.”
“Always tough,” I agreed.
“You must have passed that on to Nevada,” Rad said. “And she’s paid dearly, with her life we’ll presume. Her john wants to walk out without leaving a gratuity, fuck it, I say let him go.”
That’s how he saw it. That’s how everyone would. The police wouldn’t work themselves into a sweat proving otherwise, either. Nevada was a prostitute, a common whore. Selling your ass was a tough gig. You put your life on the line every time you spread your legs for a stranger. Even your regulars were strangers. Shit happens.
“Nevada is no prostitute,” I repeated.
“Sure, sure, whatever. But look, my friend, I’ve had enough of this back-and-forth,” Rad said. “I’ve already wasted more time on this situation than I ever cared to.”
I didn’t respond.
“What’s it gonna be, Shell?” he asked, tapping the empty spot on his wrist where a watch would have rested.
“Your way,” I said after awhile.
“What’s that?”
“Handle it your way. I’m not paying or leaving.”
Conrad narrowed his eyes and sighed.
Shepard actually yawned; a soundless yawn but a yawn just the same.
“That’s a poor choice, my friend. You’re in the midst of a life-or-death decision if there ever was one.”
“My Juneteenth,” I said.
“Yes. Yes.” Conrad slapped my shoulder. “You learn mighty quickly. That’s very good. Now, for the last time—”
“I’m not paying or leaving,” I cut in.
&nbs
p; Rad nodded, reached inside his blazer. I braced myself.
His hand came out with something that looked like a small lasso. “TUFF-TIES restraints,” he said. “They’re designed with a little give so you won’t lose circulation in your hands. Made out of braided nylon, tensile strength of eight hundred pounds, you’ll be locked in with eighteen polycarbonate teeth.”
“Glad to know stainless steel handcuffs aren’t de rigueur,” I replied.
Rad whistled. “De rigueur. Nice. You truly do dispel the myth of the dumb musclehead, Shell.”
“What if I refuse to be restrained?”
Rad’s laughter bounced off of what glass was left in the Acura. Shepard eased open the passenger door, clopped around the back of the car, came up on the driver’s side where he stood patiently.
“Slide over to the other seat, Shell. Shepard will drive.”
I hesitated.
“This is how you wanted it,” he said. “I’m beyond negotiating at this point.”
The car settled down about a foot it seemed when Shepard took my spot behind the wheel.
“Need you to loop this through the door handle,” Rad said, handing me the TUFF-TIES. “We need to make sure you’re locked in nice and secure.”
My second hesitation in less than a minute lasted only a beat.
I looped the restraint through the door handle as directed.
“Shepard,” Rad said. “Finish securing our friend’s wrists if you would.”
The restraints did have some “give”. Circulation wouldn’t be an issue for me. Rad had it figured correctly. I settled myself in. No other choice available. Locked in nice and secure.
TEN
ROUTE 21, ALSO KNOWN as McCarter Highway, is a four- to six-lane stretch of roadway that runs from the Newark Airport Interchange at Route 1 & 9 to US Route 46 in Clifton. Originally constructed in 1927 to travel from Newark to as far as Belleville, it would be extended twice more in the years to follow. The first expansion took place in 1948, lengthened the highway to Paterson. The second expansion happened in the late 90s, lengthening it to its current endpoint in Clifton. By and large the route runs parallel with the PassaicRiver.
I’d rented the Acura at a place right on the highway, not much more than a football field in distance from Elm Street in the Ironbound. Ishmael, the older West Indian proprietor, had been smoking a cheroot when I entered his office. He dropped it into a Styrofoam coffee cup and crumpled the cup and tossed it into a brown wastebasket that was absent a trash bag. He wiped his hands on his brown pants, stood from his barstool and, lips puckered, gave me a respectful nod. And distance. The first rule of business is to know your customer. I liked him straightaway.
When he did finally speak, to settle all of the details of our transaction, it was in a voice with the melody of a Bob Marley song. He wore a white dress shirt with navy blue stripes and pressed brown slacks. Professional attire, for sure. But I noticed he had a roustabout’s hands. I like just about anyone with some evidence of hard living in their hands. Ishmael’s misshapen knuckles looked as though they belonged to Tommy Hearns or Marvin Hagler or Sonny Liston. Even more reason for me to rent from him.
His office assuaged some of the tension that had worked its way into my posture the moment Siobhan’s call made me plop down on my ass in the sand. In addition to the cheroot he’d smoked, the office smelled like forest and marijuana and hurried sex. That due to several burning sticks of patchouli incense he planted in a mayonnaise jar filled to its midpoint with pennies. A calendar on the wall behind his desk displayed a picture of a syrup-colored woman in a lavender bikini bottom with an ass like Hottentot Venus.
About the only thing I didn’t like was the establishment’s name—Ashmore and Cartier Car Club Inc. Too pretentious for my taste. But the “A” in the name would place the business first thing in the Yellow Pages. And the Ashmore and CartierIslands were exotic in the same vein as some of the vehicles Ishmael had available for lease or rental. This all according to the genial West Indian. I took him at his word.
“What are you going to do about the damage to this window?” I asked Rad.
He coughed, hacked phlegm, and said, “Nothing.”
“Not good, Conrad.”
“Call me that again and I’ll pull out all of your teeth,” he said calmly. “Your dental records will be rendered moot as far as identification.”
“You’ve threatened me for the last time,” I told him.
“You’re stupid as cash for clunkers,” he said, and fell into an eerie silence.
Shepard moved us back up Clinton Avenue to Lincoln Park, made a right on Broad Street, a left on South, and then moved straight ahead to McCarter Highway.
Route 21 ran north and south.
Both Ashmore and Cartier and NewarkLibertyInternationalAirport were located due south on McCarter.
But Shepard pointed us north.
I didn’t question his direction. Instead, I quietly tugged at my hand restraints. Tensile strength of eight hundred pounds, Rad had said. He wasn’t kidding. I was locked in secure, suddenly feeling vulnerable enough to notice the dryness of my mouth and the sweat pooled in my armpits. I licked my lips and cursed the night sky that covered us in a blanket of darkness. A blanket and yet it offered me no comfort or safety on any level.
Shepard’s foot was a cinderblock on the gas. Streetlamps passed by so quickly they seemed to blink. Like hazard lights. Rad remained mostly silent in the backseat, except for the occasional throat clearing. I attempted another inconspicuous tug at my restraints.
Nothing.
Nada.
Zilch.
I swallowed, readjusted myself in the seat.
“There’s a point where you’ve gone too far to turn back,” I said aloud.
I didn’t expect Rad to reply, but I waited for his hateful laugh to fill the car.
Got nothing.
And realized that was infinitely worse.
I’M VIOLENT BY NATURE. I’ve been that way for as long as I can recall. I’d like to think that my violence is focused if nothing else. I do not wake up each day expecting it anymore in the same way as Shepard or Rad. However, I am not foolhardy in my understanding either. Some situations call for brutality.
Pure and simple.
Shepard, wordlessly maneuvering my rental Acura north on Route 21 in the direction of bad luck and trouble instead of toward Ashmore and Cartier Car Club Inc. and Newark Liberty International Airport, represented a tremendous threat to my person.
Rad, just as silent as Shepard, sitting in the backseat directly behind me, a holstered .38 with the barrel and sight chopped off close to the cylinder, grips wrapped with black electrician’s tape, the gun concealed behind his blazer, represented another.
Two threats.
But my hands were tied. Literally.
As I wrapped my mind around the futility of my situation, Shepard finally eased the Acura off of the highway, taking the Grafton Avenue exit. Before I could process the implications, he looped around and followed a path right back to Route 21, moving us south now instead of north. In the correct direction. Toward Ashmore and Cartier Car Club Inc. and NewarkLibertyInternationalAirport. I was slightly confused, but not disoriented. I figured we still weren’t going to the airport or the car rental place. A beat later my conclusion proved to be correct. We were leaving the highway again. The exit for Chester and Riverside Avenues. At the off-ramp Shepard turned left, moved up Riverside.
I knew where that led.
I was suddenly aware of a noise, a loud sound that approximated window shutters clapping in a breeze. It took just a second before I realized the sound was actually my heart punching my chest. I started to say something but knew my words would carry no sway.
Off in the distance, opposite where we were headed, stood a house of worship. It looked to be a temple of some sort. A large stone structure that was impressive despite some obvious neglect. I whispered, “Cherubim were the Hebrew adaptation of a Sumerian image. Perceived
in the Bible as sphinx-like creatures with human heads, a lion’s body and two wings.” I paused, swallowed hard, and licked my lips. “The Seraphim, as described in Isaiah 6:2, were creatures of fire with six wings.”
I did not know for certain where any of that knowledge came from.
We passed by a discarded warehouse that covered one entire block. By my estimation, nothing industrial had occurred in the warehouse in years. The structure was marred by ugly, amateur graffiti. I’ve seen some graffiti that was close to being actual art. This wasn’t. Most of the building’s windows were blown out, nothing but jagged pieces of glass left to produce sparkling jack-o-lantern teeth in the gloom. Several more similarly depressed buildings loomed ahead, all of them protected—from what I did not know—behind chain-link fence. None of the buildings had signage or banners or awnings on which to advertise their business, but I took one to be some kind of chemical plant, another to be an auto body repair place. A bunch of rusted boats squatted on cement blocks in one of the yards. And nearly every yard was overrun with trash and dead grass and tire-unfriendly gravel. I didn’t see them as we passed, but I envisioned syringes and used condoms littering the grounds. Not that anyone was down here to participate in those two vices. I was looking at an industrial graveyard. Joyless and desolate and devoid of any sign of life.
“Some days you eat the bear, some days the bear eats you.”
Conrad’s sudden words sliced the silence with the precision of Cherie’s knife.
I didn’t have a reply, but I cleared my throat.
Triage: A Thriller (Shell Series) Page 11