Grinder (10 page)

The ride in my own trunk was rough and bumpy. I could have pulled the glowing knobs that released the back seats and gotten out, but then I would have had to kill Ralphy and Gonzo. I fought down the urge for revenge. It was tough to do — like swallowing a jawbreaker — but it had to be done if I was going to learn who wanted me delivered to them.

I felt a heat in my face that I knew was not a result of the beating I had taken. What I had known deep down was just proven to me. I was out of shape. Not physically. I wasn't hard anymore. Too much time away without the constant buzz of danger and paranoia had let a mental atrophy sink in. There were parts of me that had not seen use in two years. I had controlled the situation with Denis and his father, but I hadn't trusted my gut on the sidewalk. There was a time when on impulse alone I would have taken apart the singer on the street and disappeared before anyone knew what was happening. But I ignored the itch in my brain and walked past the punk. I ignored his panhandling in the wrong kind of neighbourhood, and his closed guitar case. I had gotten lazy, and it had cost me. I was riding in my own trunk to my execution.

Everything that had happened was my own fault. I had ignored every lesson my uncle had ever taught me. I had not planned what would happen inside the cleaning-supply store before I walked through. I just moved on two dangerous men because I was pushed hard by Paolo. I should have slowed things down and made a move when I knew everything would be covered. I could have walked into an empty store, or worse, an early meeting. I realized that being pushed was no excuse for what I had done in the cleaning-supply store. Being locked in my own trunk had a way of forcing me to reflect. The trunk was a cramped, smelly wake-up call. I remembered what I already knew. I had to make everything work for me; I had to be the one pushing the action, or I would constantly be on defence. No matter how good someone's defence was, they always get scored on, and this kind of game was sudden death.

I figured that whoever pulled me off the street had to be involved with Paolo in some way. How else could they know where to pick me up? What I couldn't figure was: who would use three greasy kids as heavies? They didn't look Italian, and they didn't sound Russian. Someone hired these three and they knew doing so would cover their tracks. I was only sure of one thing — they came at me outside the cleaning-supply store. That meant they weren't with Bombedieri; his men would have moved on me inside. Denis was right: Bombedieri had nothing to do with Army and Nicky disappearing.

Once my breathing had slowed and my heart rate was down, I opened my eyes and looked at the blackness inside the trunk. There was nothing useful to pick up — the car was cleaned the day I took up fishing. All I had was the gun, knife, and electronics. The bone sap was still in my pocket, but it would be useless when I didn't have the element of surprise.

I shifted around in the trunk and pulled the sap, phone, and recorder out of my pockets. Whatever I was going into, I didn't want to give up a safe phone and the only information I had gathered. I pulled up the covering on the floor of the trunk and put everything underneath, in the back corner. It felt lumpy when the cloth cover was put back on, but it would be a good enough hiding spot.

I was double-checking my work when my body was thrown forward. We had stopped. The engine stayed on, and the trunk lid stayed closed. After a minute, the car inched forward, only to stop again. After another minute and another lurch, I heard Gonzo yelling up front. His words were muffled, and I couldn't make out who he was speaking to until I heard another voice up front make a whiny grunt. Gonzo yelled louder than before, and I caught the words, “Oh, oh, and two Frostees too! I need two chocolate Frostees!”

We were in the drive-through. Gonzo and Ralphy had a body in the trunk of a stolen car and they were stopping for burgers. I had to bite my tongue to keep from screaming out in anger. Three complete idiots had taken me off the street. The humiliation hurt worse than the beating did. My self-pity was interrupted by more voices from the front seat and more lurching. I listened to the incoherent exchanges until the car peeled away and I was thrown to the back of the trunk. The car went through a series of tight turns until it settled into a long acceleration. We were back on the road, and the smell of greasy food was wafting through the seats into the trunk.

The smell of the food made my stomach turn and made it hard to keep my mind on the blow to my ego. The part of my mind that was beyond such trivial matters became louder and took over. I decided I would let the kidnapping play out until I had no other choice. If they tried to search me, I would have to make it tough in order to conceal the revolver in my waistband — no small feat when I was outnumbered three to one.

I closed my eyes again, ignored the nauseating smells, and resumed my deep breaths. I let the harsh rocking of the car sway my limp body rather than thrash it around. I opened my eyes periodically, looking at the glowing seat release knobs. They looked like PacMan. I stared at the plastic and thought of my uncle. He taught me to play the video game and to stay one step ahead of the ghosts, to play their game better than they ever could. I remembered the feeling of control I had when I could finally manipulate the ghosts, when I could lead them instead of just run from them. Being in the trunk made me mad, being in the city made me furious. My jaw had been tense for two days as I dealt with the problems of the past, problems I thought were dead. In the trunk, over the noise of the city, I heard my uncle laugh. His words hit me then, and I remembered what I had buried in my mind while I worked the ocean. “Don't get mad. It's a weakness someone will exploit. You need to be able to think without connection to your emotions.” It was advice I learned in a coffee shop over an out-of-date video game. But I learned to live the advice, and I stayed out of trunks. My uncle would only give me change if I played the game his way — the right way. And now, stuck in a trunk, I realized I had stopped playing his way. I wanted more quarters so I could get out of the trunk. I wanted to play another round because all at once I remembered everything. I realized that my jaw had loosened on its own for the first time in two days. It loosened because I was grinning in the dark. The grin was something that years on the boat couldn't touch or wear down. It came from deep inside and it was part of me, a part I couldn't deny or dull no matter how much I thought I could, a part that breathed air for the first time in years in the stale, cramped confines of the trunk.

I swayed in the trunk for five more minutes until we jammed to another stop and the car became silent. We were there. I closed my eyes and covered my face, making myself look weak and hurt. I stayed there for two minutes, until I heard a conversation through the metal lid.

“I can't believe you never tried to make your own Frostees, Ralphy boy. Everyone has tried that shit.”

“Dou did?” Ralphy's mouth was messed up from my head.

“Of course, bro. Chocolate, ice cream, and milk. I even threw in Nestlé's Quik to make it extra chocolatey.”

“And dow das it?”

“I used too much milk. The blender exploded all over the kitchen. My mom was super pissed.”

“Dour mom had do dlean it?”

“Man, I was so high I just fell asleep at the table. I was gonna do it, but I just dozed off for a second.”

“No wonber we could never practice at dour place.”

The trunk opened, shining light through the spaces of my bent elbows over my head.

“Wake up, you fucker. This Frostee is killing Ralphy's mouth 'cause of you.”

I groaned, and they both swore before stepping back to set their Frostees down. “Seriously, everything he says is all fucking garbled. He sounds like he has marbles in his mouth.”

“I dan't even daste it. My deeth durt doo much.”

“See? What the fuck was that. ‘Dan't even daste.' If he was our lead, I would have fucking left your ass in the street. Fuck the whale and what he wants; he's not more important than the sound. Count your blessings, Harry.”

They each reached in and together pulled me out of the trunk hard, straight onto the pavement. I stayed limp, making it more of a chore. They muscled me vertical, each of them using an arm to hold me up. Once I was standing, they both bent at the waist to pick up their Frostees. It would have been easy to kill them both while they concentrated on their dessert. Ten minutes ago, I would have. But it was a new game, so I just let them fuck around. Another set of hands slapped me on the back of the head — Mickey was back. I groaned louder in response.

“I told you not to stop for fucking food.”

“Come on, Mick. We worked up an appetite with Harry here. We had the munchies.”

“Deah, de munchies.”

“Hurry up and get his ass inside.”

Mickey walked ahead, not bothering to help his two partners. Ralphy and Gonzo had to pull my limp body behind Mickey while they tried to eat the last of their food. I dragged one boot along the ground and let out low groans every ten seconds. The groans were met with laughter or a “Shut the fuck up, Harry.” Every now and again, I rolled my head and took in my surroundings. I was in a poorly paved parking lot outside a squat building. There were several cars near the rear of the lot, old models, all rusted and dented. I was dragged to the back of the building to a door guarded by two large dumpsters. The back door had no handle, no peephole: it was faceless. One of the dumpsters had the word
Domenica's
stencilled on the side. I had no time to try to decipher the word. The smell of rotting food wafting from the two dumpsters filled my nose and told me all I needed to know.

Nothing on the list Paolo had given me included anything about a restaurant or the name Domenica's. Bombedieri, Perino, and Rosa were not in the food business, according to the information I was given. Someone outside of the people I was dealing with knew I was back.

Mickey banged on the door with his palm when we caught up to him. He didn't offer to relieve Ralphy and Gonzo of my weight, even though they were obviously struggling. The sound of the knock echoed in the parking lot. We waited for a minute until a dishwasher in a soaked, filthy white apron opened the door. Immediately steam and loud techno music hit me; it was like a pipe had burst at a busy nightclub. The dishwasher said nothing to the three men. He just ran outside to hold the door. He averted his gaze as I passed by, refusing to acknowledge the hostage he had no intention of helping.

I was muscled through the door by the two weakening punks. My dragging foot caught on the step into the building and tore the leather on the toe of the boot. The damage was worth the “oof” that came from Ralphy's and Gonzo's lips as they almost fell. They swore and dragged me on, too tired to hit me anymore. The kitchen was busy with people in white coats chopping and dicing vegetables. Like the dishwasher, none of the kitchen staff looked my way. Beyond a swinging door that served as an entrance to the kitchen was a dance floor. It was dark and buffed to a high gloss. In front of the dance floor was a stage piled with heavy amplifiers and other equipment. I groaned and looked over my shoulder to the rear of the restaurant. Behind me, through an empty doorway, were tables in a darkened dining area. Domenica's was more than a restaurant — it was some kind of club. I was dragged to the centre of the dance floor and held in place by my captors.

“Leave him there. Let him go. Take your hands off him,” a voice behind me said.

I knew right away who the voice belonged to. I knew of only one person who repeated himself that much. The three punks called him the whale, but I knew whose place I was in. Domenica's was Julian's club.

I didn't hear his footsteps. He glided into view from behind me, a mammoth tripod. Julian walked with help from a cane. I knew that the cane was my fault. I had hit Julian with a stolen truck two years ago in an attempt to stay alive. I had gone through Julian, Paolo's number two, to get back the information I had stolen from the Russians. I had hit him the hardest way I knew how and I hadn't killed him; I just slowed him down — permanently.

Gonzo spoke up. “Boss, he's pretty fucked up. We did a number on him outside Bombedieri's. If we let him go, he ain't gonna be standing. You want us to put him in a chair?”

Julian stood in front of me and my two young punk crutches. “Let him go. Take your hands off him. Turn him loose.”

Ralphy and Gonzo looked at each other then at the giant tripod in front of them. I felt them shrug and then chuckle. At the same time, they unhooked their arms from mine and stepped away. I didn't fall. Instead, I stood up straight and looked Julian in the eye.

“Quite the number. Real professional work,” Julian said, looking at me but speaking to the two who had just been carrying me.

“He was out. He didn't make a peep the whole ride. Not even at the drive-thr —” Gonzo stopped himself.

“Boss, we did it just like you said.” Mickey took over and began speaking for the group when he saw things getting away from Gonzo.

“Go do your sound check. Set up. Get ready for tonight,” Julian said to Mickey in a quiet, stern voice.

Mickey understood the threat underneath Julian's tone and pulled Gonzo and Ralphy away to the stage. They may have called him the whale on the street, but the three punks knew what Julian was and wouldn't dare oppose him in his presence.

“Let's go,” Mickey said.

Once I was able to stop faking injury, I did my best to take in everything around me. Julian was ninety-nine percent of my surroundings. His bulk and rage filled the room like a silent gas ready to ignite the air. He periodically leaned on the cane for support as though his massive body might teeter over at any moment. The black suit he wore was heavy, and it hid his physique. The size was still there, imposing and terrible, but I couldn't tell how much of the size under his coat was still muscle. His hair had a bit more grey to it, and it was heavily gelled, giving it the appearance of constant wetness. There was also a smell emanating from his huge frame. It was cologne and sweat. There was so much body to cover that the cologne could not hope to cancel out the body odour; it could only tinge the smell of sweat. The nights of hot kitchens and dance floors did not agree with Julian. His suit held on to the smell, and it had probably become unnoticeable to Julian. The smell probably remained unknown to him because everyone around him would be too terrified to mention it.