The Reflecting Pool

by Otho Eskin

  I pack my explosive roasting pan, along with a power drill, a small tool kit, a pair of vinyl gloves, a small flashlight, and a handful of metal screws into a tote bag, then secure the safe door and clean up leftover debris.

  The preparation takes me less than an hour. I pick up a 9-volt battery from a kitchen drawer, lock up, and I’m ready to go.

  A half hour later I’m cruising in the neighborhood near Lamont’s warehouse. There is nothing suspicious—no cars parked on a dark street that shouldn’t be there, no one lurking in a doorway. I find a small, derelict office building not far from the warehouse. To one side is a parking area partially hidden from the street by a dilapidated wooden fence where I park the Jag.

  Five minutes later I’m on an empty street in front of Lamont’s warehouse. There’s a cool breeze and I step into a doorway to keep warm. After ten minutes, headlights appear several blocks away moving cautiously down the street toward me. It looks like an old International 4300-series medium truck, painted white, the name and logo of some former owner painted over. There are dents in the fenders and scratches along the sides. The license plates are from Alabama. The truck is followed by a dark gray SUV. It is 5:38 a.m. They are on time.

  I step into the street, leaving the tote bag in the doorway, and stand with my hands at my sides where they can be easily seen. The truck comes to a slow stop twenty feet away. The driver watches me through the dirty windshield. We stand like that for several minutes, each gauging the other. Then four men get out of the follow-SUV and circle around me. Two hold rifles, one a shotgun. They stand about ten feet away from me.

  Finally, the truck door opens and the driver climbs out of the cab and walks toward me. He can’t be much over twenty. “Where’s Skinner?” The man has a slight Hispanic accent.

  “He’s tied up.”

  “We don’t deal with strangers.”

  “Too bad. I guess you’ll just have to turn around and go back to Nashville.”

  “I don’t want to hang around here.”

  “I’ll bet you don’t. We can settle this in a hurry. I represent the principal. I take the truck and what’s in it.”

  “I thought we were supposed to keep the truck.”

  “Okay. If you want to wait. You can work out the details with Skinner. That may be a while.”

  The man looks at his watch. “It’s gonna be light soon. Give me an additional $20,000 and you get the truck.”

  “Wait for Skinner to work that out.”

  The man looks anxiously at the other men, then looks at his watch. “Fuck it! Let’s go.”

  The driver tosses me the truck’s ignition keys. As I catch them, the men rush to the SUV, pile in, and, in seconds, are gone. Leaving me alone on an empty street with the truck and 1,000 Skorpion machine pistols and ammunition.

  The warehouse is made of concrete blocks. There’s an old, fading sign on the front that says: “Holden Kitchen Supplies.” In front there is a large, corrugated metal roll-up door for use for delivery trucks. To one side is a normal door next to which is a sign reading “Employees Only.”

  I lock the truck and walk around the building and inspect the immediate area. I see no signs of surveillance. No cars or small trucks with tinted windows. No man hanging around pretending to smoke a cigarette. At this hour, the area is deserted. I look especially closely for CCTV cameras on surrounding buildings. There are none. In a few hours, trucks and vans will be arriving, picking up and delivering goods. But, for now, I have the area to myself.

  I return to the front of the building and locate the cyber lock on the small front door. In the dim light, it’s hard to read the numbers on the lock, and I have to use my small flashlight—something I don’t like doing. It draws unnecessary attention. I fumble the first time and have to punch in the numbers a second time. The lock clicks and I push open the door. The warehouse is empty. There is no sign of activity inside except for a couple of dried-up pigeon feathers lying on the concrete floor.

  From inside, I unlock the roll-up door, open it, and drive the truck inside then pull the door shut. At the back of the building there is another door, which I unlock, and I step into a narrow alley. The wind blows empty paper coffee containers and scraps of newspapers around my feet.

  Inside the warehouse a little early-morning daylight filters through dirty windows. I don’t want to turn on a light that would alert anybody passing along the street the warehouse is in use. I put on the vinyl gloves and insert the 9-volt battery into the detonator.

  I slide under the truck on my back, balancing the roasting pan on my chest. Here it’s completely dark and I switch on my flashlight to survey the underside of the truck. Above me is ancient mud and dirt and what appears to be decades of grease. And God knows what else. Perfect, I think. I secure the pan to the underside of the truck bed with the small screws. Meanwhile bits and pieces of crap cover my hair and face.

  I’d prefer to place the pan on the truck bed among the crates of Skorpions and ammunition. That way it would be less likely to be torn loose by some obstacle in the road. But I can’t take that chance. I’d have to remove half the crates from the truck to do that and the pan would have been immediately obvious if anybody unloaded the truck. So I place it beneath the truck bed, out of sight.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  MY FIRST CALL is to Crowley.

  “Yes,” he says cautiously, his voice barely audible at the other end of the line.

  “Your shipment has arrived, Sweet Daddy.”

  “I told you, no names.”

  “Right you are, Sweet Daddy.”

  “Fuck you! Where do I pick up my merchandise?”

  “I see Kenneth first.”

  “I collect my shipment. Then you see your boy.”

  “Simultaneous. You come to me with Kenneth. I talk to Kenneth. You get your guns.”

  There is silence at the other end. Then, “Where do I go?”

  I give Crowley the address of the warehouse. “How long will it take you to get here?” I ask.

  “Thirty minutes. If I see anybody there but you, you’re all dead.”

  Crowley and I cut off the call simultaneously.

  My next call is even shorter.

  “If you want to close our deal, come to this address.” I give Cloud the warehouse address. “Be here in forty-five minutes. And don’t forget your payment.”

  “I’m bringing it with me. And I’m bringing backup. My stuff better be there,” Cloud replies. “As advertised.”

  During my final call, Lamont confirms he’ll buy the Skorpions and will be at his warehouse in forty-five minutes with the money.

  “Don’t forget the watch,” he adds.

  I hide my cell phone, along with my tools, in a crevice in the wall and put the remaining rewired phone Leonard prepared for me in the back pocket of my pants. I walk around the truck to be sure I’ve left no signs of my activities. I check that the keys are in the ignition and the cab doors and rear doors are unlocked. I survey the interior of the warehouse. Everything is as it should be. My work here is almost done.

  I step out onto the street in front of the warehouse to wait, leaving the roll-up doors wide open. I know it’s early in the day but I need a cigarette. It’s been an awful twenty-four hours and I’m deeply shaken by what happened to Larry Talbot. I worry about Mariana. I tell myself I deserve a smoke.

  It’s still cold in the street and the breeze has picked up but the sun feels good on my face. The neighborhood is deserted. No delivery trucks are in sight, no sign of anybody headed for an early shift.

  Twenty minutes later, a Jeep Grand Cherokee followed by a vintage Oldsmobile sedan, painted green, pull up to the warehouse doors. The driver of the Jeep studies me carefully through the windshield, turns and speaks to somebody I can’t make out in the passenger seat next to him. The two vehicles pull slowly into the warehouse, stopping just in front of the truck. I follow by foot. The Jeep doors are thrown open, and a man steps out of the passenger side. He carries a Browni
ng automatic pointed at me. He nods and four men, each armed with a shotgun, pile out of the Grand Cherokee behind him and quickly close the warehouse doors.

  The driver-side door of the Olds opens slowly and a tall man I remember from Fast Freddy’s emerges. I seem to recall his name is Floyd. He has a swastika tattooed on his left wrist. He approaches me cautiously, and I hold my arms out on both sides and try to look innocuous and non-threatening. Floyd pats me down, finding nothing but the cell phone, which he takes and walks to the Olds, leans down and speaks quietly to the passenger in the front seat. There’s a long exchange I can’t hear, then the passenger door opens and a second man steps out.

  This should have been my big moment. I am finally face-to-face with the man I’ve been hunting for what seems like weeks although it’s been only a few days. The man I’ve been obsessed with. There should have been trumpets. Oh Clouds Unfold! Instead he’s a short, dumpy, middle-aged man in a rumpled, dirty white suit and a bow tie, with pale, rheumy eyes who looks no more threatening than your average beagle.

  “He’s clean, sir,” Floyd says. “Except for a phone.” Floyd tosses the phone to the man in the white suit who examines it carefully, then puts it into his jacket pocket.

  “I guess you must be Sweet Daddy,” I say. “Or do you prefer Crawley?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Where’s Kenneth?” I demand.

  Crowley gestures toward the Oldsmobile. “He’s fine. Show me the guns.”

  “Kenneth first,” I say.

  Crowley sighs. “Cass!” he yells at the man holding the Browning. “Bring him out.”

  The man he calls Cass pulls open a back door of the Olds. There is movement within and a figure appears, hands bound. The figure stands beside the car, head down, and staggers slightly. I walk to him.

  “That’s far enough,” Crowley yells at me.

  I continue walking. “I’m going to speak with Kenneth,” I yell back. “I’m going to see for myself he’s okay.”

  Kenneth has several days’ growth of pale beard. His hair is uncombed. His face is drawn. But there are no signs he’s been injured.

  “You all right? Did they hurt you?”

  “I’m fine, sir.” His voice is raspy. “They pushed me around some, but I’m fine.” He’s trying to sound brave but he’s clearly deeply shaken. “Thanks for coming to save me.”

  “I haven’t saved you. Not yet, I haven’t. The worst is yet to come.” I don’t tell Kenneth the only reason he’s alive is because Crowley had to keep him as a hostage. Once Crowley has taken over the gun shipment, Kenneth is no longer of any use. Me neither.

  I face Crowley. “I’ve brought you the Skorpions. I’m taking Kenneth with me.”

  “Not so fast. I examine the guns first.” Crowley turns to Floyd. “Open the truck.”

  “Yes, Mr. Crowley.” Floyd disappears and a moment later I hear the sound of metal squealing and the tailgate falling open. “All clear, Mr. Crowley,” Floyd calls.

  Crowley walks to the rear of the truck and studies the piles of wooden crates filling the truck.

  “Open one,” Crowley says.

  I should have anticipated this. Should have given myself more time.

  Floyd pulls out one of the crates and places it gently on the ground. He pries open the wooden cover, tossing it to one side. Inside lies a Skorpion machine pistol nestled in straw and covered in thick black packing grease. Floyd lifts a Skorpion from its crate and hands it cautiously to Crowley who takes it in both hands, lifting the weapon gently up and down as if it were a newborn baby.

  “Isn’t she a beauty?” Crowley crows to no one in particular. He unfolds the wire stock and holds it against his shoulder. He swivels around, pointing the Skorpion first up at the roof, then at me, then at Floyd, who cringes. Finally, back to me. He pulls the trigger and the hammer clicks.

  “It’s not loaded. You have to load the magazines and then rack the magazine into the gun first.”

  “Bring some ammunition, Floyd.”

  “You better remove the packing grease before you fire it,” I say. “Or it’ll jam.”

  Crowley’s shoulders sag a little. He looks forlornly at the Skorpion then passes it back to Floyd. “We’ll test-fire them at the compound,” he says. His hands are smeared with black grease he tries to clean with a dirty handkerchief. “Pack it up, Floyd. Button up the truck. We’re ready to roll.”

  Floyd reattaches the lid and replaces the crate securely in the back of the truck then swings the tailgate closed.

  “Larry, you and Finney take the truck and go to the compound.”

  “You coming, Mr. Crowley?” the man called Larry asks.

  “I’ll follow in the Olds. I’ve got some personal business to care of. Call me when you reach the compound. I’ll send a message to our people then and let them know.”

  Larry and a second man climb into the truck cab and look at Crowley as if for further instructions. Crowley nods and Larry starts the truck engine. Floyd and one of the other armed men pull open the warehouse doors and, with a roar and a cloud of blue exhaust, Larry, the truck, and the Skorpions are gone. Floyd immediately pulls the doors shut.

  “Post guards at the entrance,” Crowley orders. “No one comes in here ’less I say so.”

  Floyd directs two men with shotguns to take positions in the street just outside the warehouse front doors.

  “What happens now?” I ask.

  “We wait.”

  “Wait for what?”

  “Wait until I tell you to stop waiting. I want to be sure the goods arrive without interference.”

  So much for my escape plan.

  Five minutes later the silence is broken by the sound of cars approaching. A car door slams and voices yell angrily.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Crowley demands. “You expecting visitors?” Before I can answer there’s a fusillade of gunfire. A dozen rounds. One of Crowley’s men rushes back into the warehouse. He’s trembling. Breathing hard. He’s lost his shotgun.

  “There’s a bunch of men out there,” he yells. “They’re shooting at each other. I think they killed Norm.”

  “Go out there and find out what’s going on,” Crowley orders me.

  There’s another round of gunfire. Maybe thirty or forty shots. Small arms mixed with some automatic weapons. There are curses and screams.

  “Get out there!” Crowley yells.

  “I’ll go out back and circle around and see what’s happening.”

  “Your boy stays here in case you got a mind to run for it.”

  I slip out the back door of the warehouse. Floyd follows me and crouches just outside in the empty alley. The only movement is from newspapers drifting in the breeze, the only sound, small-arms fire from around the corner.

  “We’re in the middle of a fucking war,” Floyd gasps, gripping an AK-47. “They’re a lot of men shooting at each other.”

  “Go back inside the warehouse and wait for me.” I keep my voice low. “You’ll be safe there. Stand just inside the door. If somebody tries to get in, shoot ’em. Anybody. Except me, of course.” Floyd disappears back into the warehouse.

  I work my way cautiously toward the corner of the building, keeping close to the wall. I look around the corner and see an SUV stopped near the front of the warehouse, its windshield shot out. A man lies on the ground near the driver’s door. He is one of Cloud’s bodyguards who took me to the club last night. Crouched behind the SUV, Cloud and one of his enforcers are firing handguns at something or somebody I can’t see.

  I move quickly away, heading for the back door to the warehouse. I’ve gone maybe ten feet when I feel a gun muzzle pressed into the back of my head.

  “Last time I missed,” a familiar voice says to me. “No way that gonna happen again.”

  I turn and Cloud steps back so he’s well out of my reach in case I should make a grab for the Walther automatic he’s pointing at my right eye. I feel the bullet fragment twisting in my gut.


  “I’m going to put you down, Zorn.”

  Cloud is alone, his crew nowhere in sight.

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Why the fuck not?”

  “Without me you’re a dead man.”

  “Who’s gonna stop me?” Cloud is breathing heavily.

  “There’s some dudes around the corner think they will. They’re coming after you.”

  “That’s Lamont. My people will take care of him.” Cloud doesn’t sound confident. A new volley of gunfire erupts—closer this time. Cloud looks scared. Something I never thought I’d see.

  “Your boys are all dead or out of the fight,” I say. “You’ve got no one left. I can fix it for you so you can get out of here alive.”

  “How you gonna do that?” Cloud’s voice shakes, but the hand holding the Walther is steady.

  “I get you into the warehouse by the back door. You wait there for Lamont. He’ll come in the front looking for you. Bam! Bam! Bam! You take out Lamont. And you take your guns. Just follow me.”

  “Let’s go,” Cloud orders. “Don’ forget, I’m right behind you.”

  We crouch down and slip along the side of the building. There’s rapid gunfire around the corner sounding like they’re getting close. We reach the back door of the warehouse. Cloud gestures silently with his gun for me to go in first. I snatch open the door and dive inside. Cloud is right behind me.

  I land flat on the floor. Floyd and Cass stand on either side of the door we just burst through, Floyd holding his AK-47, Cass a shotgun.

  “What the fuck’s going on here?” Cloud yells. “Where’s my truck? Where’s my stuff ?”

  “Drop your weapon!” Cass yells.

  That’s probably the wrong thing to say. Cloud spins and fires three rounds from his Walther into Cass’s face, which disintegrates.

  Floyd fires a burst from his AK-47 toward Cloud, but he’s too slow. Too clumsy. Cloud has bolted through the open door back into the alley. Facing him is Lamont, holding a gun in each hand, firing round after round into Cloud. Cloud fires twice and Lamont goes down.