On the Up

by Shilo Jones

  “Yeah, where’s the package, asshole?” That’s Duke. “Do not play games. This is my op now, Mr. Peele. To be clear: this is where I assume command. Mark! Where are the fucking—”

  Mind slipping, something’s off, resist the urge to yell STOP THE LAV. “Hey, Duck. You military? Me too! Does that mean we’re like cock brothers of death? LULZ! But this Duck guy, Peele, I dunno, can’t trust him—”

  “Marky you asshole stay cool—”

  “—have some faith, gentlemen, jeez.” Acting all defensive, like they’re wronging me, hurting my feelings, but I look over and Clint’s wearing scorched CADPAT fatigues and I gotta fight real hard to say, “Park in one eighty-two, Dick. Left. No, your other left. This is a sweet ride, Peele. I never owned a new car.”

  A construction sign and a few orange cones are blocking the stall. Best thing I’ve seen all night. Means I asked for a high-stakes favour and it came through.

  “Got it. Let me hop out and—”

  “You stay right there,” Duke shouts. “Clint. You do it. Get out and move that shit.”

  Moviegoers and shoppers part for the suv. No one looks out of place. Not even us. The parking lot’s lit bright. Security cameras everywhere. Hard to bury a pressure cooker in here. Unless it’s in your head. Clint jumps out, clears the signs, and climbs back in. Duke’s on the ball; he backs the suv in so he’ll have good visibility into the parking lot. Sometimes you get lucky. I got lucky with Duke the ex-soldier turned criminal mercenary.

  Duke throws it in park but doesn’t kill the engine, reaches under his seat, grabs an MP7, compact submachine gun, manoeuvrable, designed for urban warfare, beauty piece of work, not easy to come by in the Frozen North. Duke sets the weapon on his lap.

  “Uh, guys,” I say, eyes going cartoon-buggy at seeing the machine gun. “Peele? Clint? I’m unarmed, right? Duck searched me? I mean, Dick? So what’s—”

  “This is you, Mark.” Duke interrupts. “Where are they?”

  “You have to signal.”

  Peele chokes, throws his hands over his face.

  Duke grabs the MP7, rotates, points it at my chest, and seeing it there, death, I dunno, it makes me relax, feels right somehow, THIS IS MINE AND MINE ONLY—

  “Signal?” Duke says. “Fuck that. Why?”

  “Shit, c’mon, Dupe. Thinky-thinky! So Ryan is released.”

  “Released?” Peele shrieks. “By who? You said you have him!”

  “What? How can I have him? I’m here.”

  “Clint, you better—”

  “Peele, fuck. I got it.” Clint pulls his Glock, aims at my guts. Holding the thing sideways, all TV gangster. I could snatch it from him in a heartbeat. But I won’t. “Marky? Family. Don’t fuck me. Why aren’t you alone?”

  “I am alone. Except I’m with you.”

  Peele snickers.

  “Look. I needed someone to watch Ryan. Give the signal and they’ll let him go.”

  Duke shakes his head. “No, no. No signal. Might as well paint a fucking target on my face. Look, where’s the kid, asshole? You and Clint fetch the kid, bring him to me—”

  “Aargh!” Peele yells. “And the girl! Where’s Jasminder…Clint? I fucking told you…I said—”

  “Marky’ll do as I tell him. I said I got him.”

  “You got me, brother? This is gonna be boss.”

  Duke grabs the gearshift. “Fuck this. Mr. Peele? I’m officially un-assing.”

  “What?”

  I laugh in Duke’s ear, don’t mean it to sound so screechy and manic but it does because there’s an Afghan man walking across the underground parking lot holding a kufi over his nose and mouth. “Braaap! Clint! Let’s go dirt biking. Like when we were kids? Smooth is fast! Braaap!” Arms out, pretending to hold my motorbike handlebars, shaking like I’m riding through rough terrain.

  “Hey asshole—shut up! My operation now, Mr. Peele. Look at that shitbag. Op depends on him? Already lied. Wants us to signal? Fuck no. Danger close—”

  Mad laughter rolling through the Lexus, feels great to get it out. “GOFO! Peele, I’m saying your boy Dump has a stunning Grasp of the Fucking Obvious. Hey, Dick, return to base, where’d you serve, you’re a fucking embar—”

  “—too many moving parts,” Duke continues, ignoring me. “We stay calm, fully un-ass, no peanuts—”

  “Peanuts?” Peele screeches.

  “Dupe is saying he won’t take a bullet for you, Peele. Like backing out? This guy, Dope, I dunno, chickenshit—”

  “Shut up Mark!” Clint yells, pressing the Glock to my ribs.

  Peele paws at his beard. “Duke? You want to leave? I fucking need—aargh! Clint, your junkie brother says another word, shoot him in the belly. You! Duck! We’re staying right here. That is a…command? An order? Uh…fucking got me?”

  “You already transferred comm—”

  “—fucking untransferring it!”

  Peele’s right in Duke’s face. And I mean, inches. Duke has a loaded machine gun on his lap. He’s sitting military straight, trying to stay cool, not murder the asshole boss who’s spraying him with spittle.

  Tap Duke on the shoulder. “Signal, Big Dick.”

  Clint doesn’t shoot and the Afghan man is gone, so good times.

  Peele whirls, tries to snatch the Glock from Clint. Clint jerks the gun to the side. Peele misses, shrieks, scratches at my face. I bat him away. Duke’s not saying a word, focused on the busy parking lot. After a few seconds of funny flailing hissy-fit Peele stops, breathes in some self-control, and for a full minute, maybe two, it’s dead quiet in the pimpin’ Lexus suv.

  “Dump, this is fun, not a bad Saturday night, but you still have to signal. Ryan’s in here somewhere. What movie’s playing? Shit. Can’t remember the last movie I saw.”

  “Who has him?” Clint asks, the Glock shaking in his hand. My brother, no wobbling, warrior discipline. “Who the fuck’s got Twll?”

  I look at my brother. And I lie.

  “It’s Jasminder. Is that perfect, fellas, or what? I told her she had to do this thing to get square and cool with like me and you, and the dumb bitch bought it! She’s super afraid of you, Peele. She has Ryan stuffed in the trunk. I even showed him to her all tied up. She was sad, but like whatever. Said she wants out. I couldn’t leave him alone in there, y’know…by himself? ’Case someone heard him banging around? So we signal Jasminder, she signals back, and we go snatch them both. Piece of piss!”

  I give my brother a half-smile. There’s a family in that smile. A childhood spent throwing rocks at freight trains as they whipped through the valley. I love you brother. Clint knows I’m lying. He always did. But he says, “That’s a boss plan, bro.”

  “No,” Duke says, unwavering. “It’s shit.”

  Peele rips at his beard. “Tell me the fucking signal!”

  Duke shifts the suv into gear, keeps his foot on the brake.

  Not stupid, this Duke. Big, but not totally stupid.

  “Duck? Flash your headlights three times.”

  Duke’s going to make sure I die. One way or the other. But for now he tells Peele we should haul ass. Spends a minute explaining all the reasons he’s not gonna signal, and when he’s finished Peele reaches over and flashes the headlights.

  LIGHTROAR

  Duke knocks Peele away, snatches the MP7. Nothing happens for a good five seconds, long enough to have me worrying I got fucked. I want to say something to my brother, last words, but the truth is I’ve stopped breathing—

  People walk by. What should I call them?

  Civilians? Bystanders? Collaterals?

  A nice night at the movies. Maybe a first date, an anniversary, an outdoor wedding procession, and the BLOOD RAIN—

  The first round takes off the left half of Vincent Peele’s head, all that ugliness just thunk-spetch into liquid marring a calfskin interior, strikes me as the prettiest thing ever, real nice image to die to—

  There’s no sound, or the sound arrives later. Another round hits Peele’s
headrest, takes a weird bounce, punches into Clint’s thigh. Something wet and warm slaps my cheek. A river of blood or money or both, sink or swim, we made their women scream. Heat burns down my throat and the locked doors won’t open and the vc or Vincent’s dead—

  Mist against my skin. Lick my lips, taste the enemy—

  The shots start up for serious, rapid-fire, some a quick pop-pop and others lower, duth-duth-duth like a bass line, and the suv sways side to side from rounds impacting metal and Clint shoves out the door. He didn’t fire at me. After all this. My brother didn’t shoot me—

  Duke smashes back and forth as bullets pound into his flak jacket. He has the MP7 raised above the dash despite getting shot to shit. The MP7 shoots forked lighting. Duke is secretly a vengeful god. Bullets shatter the windshield, punch holes in the roof. Something sledgehammers my shoulder, leaves fire in its wake. Peele ends up hunched against the dash. Clint’s crouched behind the door, ducking, shooting, doing a convincing job of being a gangster. Civilians scream, run, fall down, flail, scream, die. No one gets reborn. No one hits reset. Someone is surely doing something poignant and heart-wrenching. The tinted glass in the truck beside Clint explodes. Acrid reek of gunpowder and earthy reek of blood and my brother, I wish I held you—

  Duke’s bulk and body armour act like a shield, blocking bullets from hitting me. I’m trying to fold myself into the footwell, hiding, not really meaning to, instinct, will to live, huddled behind Duke, spitting blood and vomit, not walking boldly into the fray, not doing much of anything, cowering, pissing myself, a pressure cooker packed with potassium chlorate, nails, sharpened rebar. Wired to three artillery shells and this time let’s finish the job—

  Clint flings himself halfway inside the Lexus. Point-blank shots from right beside us. Someone’s crying. Me? I’m sobbing, pleading. We’re not plastic inside. We don’t dissolve into the ground when we die. Clint opens his mouth, looses smoke and burning sand. Tries to lift the Glock. To shoot me? A guy’s standing behind my brother, a civilian coming to help, I almost shot him after he pulled me from the LAV, saved me, please forgive me, my mind skipping, past and present then and now and this is one of Sim Grewal’s gangsters lifting an AK-47 at my brother’s spine. Someone’s praying. Is it me? Is this me? I’M ONLY ME. My ears bust open. Duke’s foot slips off the brake—

  The Lexus rolls into the parking lot, crunches through shattered glass and everything goes quiet—

  I’m where I said I’d be. Behind the driver. Did Jasminder tell Sim? Kandahar road dust filters into my lungs. Only this isn’t then. This isn’t anything. This is what happens when. This is on television, gangland, condominium, I’m getting mine, game changer, we’re different here. Black smoke fills the Lexus LAV and I’m sitting in a fancy leather armchair in a corner office, gazing through floor-to-ceiling windows at the city skyline, concrete condominiums and the blue-black Pacific, feeling the yaw and roll of deep-sea waves, the city torn from the continental landmass, adrift, admiring the sunlit ocean, the city unmoored—

  Jasminder Bansal

  Outside Pacific Centre mall, looking into the entry atrium. The scene stained aqua by lightly tinted glass, an underwater world. Pastel tables perched on steel posts. Towering tropical ferns. Employees in threadbare uniforms and peaked hats fiddling with their phones behind fast-food counters.

  I am driven by passion and purpose.

  Ryan’s standing beside me. We’re together and apart.

  Mr. Xi’s assistant at Pillar Investment arrives five minutes early for our meeting. Joyce Arnell. I recognize her from her employee photo online. Redhead. Midforties. Grey slacks, pale blue blouse. Could be a midlevel human resources exec. Volunteers at her daughter’s high school. Enjoys spinning pottery. Has a wheel in her garage. Doesn’t use it as much as she’d like. Work keeps her busy. All those secrets. I wonder if she finds it draining.

  “Is that her?” Ryan asks.

  Joyce doesn’t find it draining at all. Her secrets invigorate her. She chooses a table, checks her watch, glances outside, directly at me. I don’t think she sees me? Coolness wraps around my throat. Only a few people milling around. I’m grateful for their presence. Shoppers. Witnesses. They wouldn’t do it here. Would they? But on the way to my car, or later, at home? Anytime, really. I guess they could do it here, in public. Why not? The newspapers said my brother’s crew executed a rival in a South Vancouver parking lot on a Tuesday afternoon. A targeted killing. Eighty-three cartridges littering the asphalt.

  If this woman says the word—

  What if I go inside? Sit down with Joyce. Give her the camera with Scott Charles Booth and…Ryan. You can have everything, Mark said. Is everything enough?

  Maybe Joyce shows me a photograph to prove who she works for. Who I’ll be working for.

  I watch Joyce sip her tea. She’s outwardly lovely.

  Maybe she shows me a Middle Eastern street scene, a mangled vehicle, a crater in the ground, a wrecked and smoking storefront, a bloodstained sidewalk, or a razed village in Central Africa—

  My business is growing at exactly the right pace.

  I turn from the window. Take out the camera, remove the memory card, crush it with my heel, kick it down a storm drain. When I look up Ryan’s halfway down the block, veering around a rain puddle, not quite running but close to it. I’m supposed to take him to the guy Mark knows. I almost call his name, stop myself. He vanishes around a corner, leaving me to doubt he was here. I’m alone outside and the first thing that pops into my head is some time. Between what and what? Between Amar and…I put my earbuds in. D.O.A. segues to Drake. The red-headed woman is looking through the glass. Her name could be Joyce Arnell. Isn’t that who she is or is supposed to be? Does she feel me watching her? Alone on the street, wondering what I’ve accomplished, if anything, what’s changed, if anything. The dream-goal long gone. Ryan? Mark? Did I see them clearly? I walk down Robson remembering Amar, hoping it was worth it, trying to imagine an ending.

  Acknowledgements

  My continuing gratitude to everyone I’ve thanked in person, and doubly so to those I haven’t.

  SHILO JONES has worked as a tree planter, a stonemason, an English instructor, and most recently, a stay-at-home father. He holds a BFA in Visual Art from Simon Fraser University and an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of British Columbia. He lives in Kelowna, B.C.