In Plain Sight (5 page)

I stumbled back to the bedroom, the only room, and pushed the bed up onto its side. I used the tiny bit of space on the floor to stretch. I spent an hour on the floor, stopping only when I could stand up straight without wincing, then I went back to the bathroom and washed in the cramped shower stall.

There were no towels, so I dried using the bed sheet and then put Igor's clothes back on. I walked out with the empty duffel bag and opened the trunk. Under the carpet, below the spare, was the compartment full of cash. I had not bothered to move it away from the car before because I was always just a surprise away from bolting. The money had to stay close. Now, with the car no longer anonymous, it wasn't safe to leave the money inside. I loaded the bag with the cash and walked out to a bus stop. I waited fifteen minutes inside the graffiti-tinted bus shelter for the right bus to pull to a stop. I got on and noticed that my clothes were wrinkled and stained enough to match every other jobless passenger who was riding the bus with me at
2
:
30
in the afternoon on a weekday.

I rode the bus up the escarpment and into the suburb of Ancaster until I saw a gym roll past the window. I got off at the next stop and walked back to the gym. The hours posted on the outside window began early and ended late. The gym was open every day at
5
:
30
a.m. and closed every night at midnight. Through the glass, I could see that the equipment was old, and there were few patrons inside. The time of day didn't matter; good gyms were always busy. This particular establishment was old, and they seemed to have problems keeping up with the new chains that offered a constantly changing line-up of fad activities like hip-hop Pilates. I took one last look inside before I walked back to the bus stop to wait for another ride.

At
3
:
30
, another bus picked me up and took me to a busy commercial development on the edge of Ancaster. The strip, just off Golf Links Road, contained a store to cater to almost every human need. Within two hours, I had picked up clothes, food, toiletries, a towel, a folding knife, and a combination padlock.

I took the bus back to the gym. Phoenix Fitness was still open and still not very busy. This time I left the windows alone and walked straight inside. A kid in his twenties manned the counter, talking on the phone and drinking a health juice drink from a straw. I looked at him, and he glanced at me before waving me through and turning his back to continue his conversation.

“I got to work tonight too, yo. No, not here, at West
49
. I couldn't get out of it. We'll go out after, man. I'm gonna get fuckin' tanked. I don't give a shit if I have to work tomorrow — I'll just power through. I've been hung over here before. Hell, I'm a bit hung over now. Yeah, yeah, right.”

I stared at the kid's back and watched him talk. He was fit, with the kind of bulk that came from heavy daily workouts. His hair was short and styled stiff with gel, and his head bobbed with each agreement he made out loud into the phone. There was a pause in the conversation as the kid took another sip from his drink. He put the cup down beside him and laughed at a joke I couldn't hear. I was tired, not from lack of sleep or injury, just tired of assholes throwing their weight around. The jock behind the counter was just another jerk-off who thought he could push me around. I was tired of being pushed by cops and crooks and now by over-developed minimum wagers. I picked up the cup, feeling the weight of the remaining fluid inside. I stood with the drink in my hand for thirty seconds until the desire for liquid arose in the kid again. His hand began groping around the counter for the container while he spoke into the receiver. I set the drink down on the edge of the counter so that part of the cup was off the side. The phone conversation became shorter and shorter as the kid focused more and more on the missing container. After three failed gropes towards the spot the drink used to be, he turned around to see it in front of me. He stared at the drink, confused at its location, then at me to see if it was a joke. I didn't smile.

“I'll call you back,” he said to whoever was on the other end of the connection.

He reached for his drink, and I shook his hand. The kid was startled by the gesture, but he recovered and pumped my hand hard with a testosterone-filled challenge. I let him squeeze with little resistance. I could have turned the handshake into something mangling, but I didn't want this kid to remember much about me.

The kid, happy with his winning grip on my loose hand, let go and gave me his best tough guy greeting. It was full of artificial street and imaginary persecution. “Wha'choo need?”

“I need a month pass. What will that cost me?”

“Cost you fifty bucks.”

I peeled off a fifty and put it on the counter. He reached for the money, but my hand never moved — it stayed on top of the bill.

“This fifty get me a locker?”

“Yeah, but no spa or tanning. That stuff is extra.”

I chuckled at the idea of using a spa or tanning bed. “I'll get by,” I said.

The kid reached for his drink, and I met his hand with the money. He couldn't hide his disappointment as he took the money instead of his drink. I put the duffel bag on the counter in front of the drink and asked if I had to fill out a form.

“It'll be faster if I do it.” Thirst had made the kid efficient. “What's your name?”

“James Moriarty,” I said, expecting the question.

“Spell it.”

I did. I pulled an address and phone number out of the air and listened to the kid pound the keyboard in front of him. The card printed, and the kid laminated it, stealing glances at me and the bag guarding his drink the whole time. When the card was finished, I took my bag off the counter and walked to the change room. I heard him reach for the cup and then swear as it fell to the floor. There was a splat and then more swearing as I pushed open the locker room door.

I found my locker and set my bags down on the small ledge below that was supposed to act as a bench. There was only one other person in the change room — an old man, totally nude. He slowly took a shaving kit and towel out of a locker and walked by me to the showers. He never glanced at me or attempted to hide his nakedness. He was too old to be ashamed and too tired to try to suck anything in. I waited for the shower door to close before dumping out one of the shopping bags onto the ledge. I transferred the cash from the duffel to the empty shopping bag. I set the stuffed plastic bag inside my locker and sealed the door with the brand new lock I picked up earlier. As soon as the lock clicked shut, I spun the dial through the first two numbers of the three-number code so that I could open the lock fast when I came back. I refilled the duffel bag with the things I sprawled across the ledge and walked out to the workout floor. I strolled through the gym to the back exit that was propped open to pull in cool air from outside. I left through the back door, my money safe inside a makeshift safe deposit box. The kid at the front counter would be too busy to notice that I never walked out the front door. He would just assume it happened while he was cleaning the mess from his drink. I learned that trick a decade ago as a way to swipe things from department stores. The classics never went out of style.

T
he bus ride back to the motel was uneventful. No one looked at me twice. I got off at the stop near the motel and walked slowly past the office. The door was open, but the guy from before wasn't there anymore. Instead, a short red-headed woman was behind the desk, television off, head down, working. I watched her stamp two pieces of paper before filing them and starting again. It was a good sign. Had anyone been around asking about me and pressing her for information, she'd have been on the lookout. Her busyness signalled everything was still kosher. The car was where I'd left it, as were the curtains. No one had done any obvious searching. I walked past the door and stopped in between my room and the next. I put my back against the wall and my hand inside my coat on top of Igor's revolver. My left hand found the key fob in my pocket and double clicked. The Volvo obediently beeped twice, calling out to the device in my hand. I watched the window, but the curtains stayed closed. I pivoted and watched the curtains in the neighbouring room, but the curtains there mimicked my own. Anyone who could have found my room would have known about the car. They would have moved on me when they heard the car out of fear of losing the advantage of surprise. Satisfied, I drew the gun, opened the door, and slipped into the darkness of the room. It took only twenty-five seconds for me to make sure the two rooms were clear.

I checked the time and got into the bathroom. I used the small mirror and sink to shave my beard to alter the appearance Igor and Morrison had seen. I put on the new clothes I had bought — dark khakis and a black T-shirt. The cooling October air would let me get away with a sweatshirt, but I went instead for a black lightweight waterproof jacket with several deep pockets. The jacket blended with the pants and concealed Igor's revolver. The Glock police pistol that I'd taken off Morrison tucked into the back of my pants, and the folding knife went into my pants pocket.

Dressed and shaved, I went out to the Volvo, got behind the wheel, and dialled Morrison. He answered after one ring. “Morrison.”

“You must be out of the car.”

“You son of a bitch. I'm a cop, and you pull that shit. You're done. You forgot what I got on you? When I'm done, everyone will have seen your face. It's gonna be front page, mate. You're gonna have nowhere to hide.”

“You run the prints?”

“Not yet, but I'm going to. It's at the top of my to-do list right after arresting you.”

“I thought you wanted a fish.”

“Fuck you and your fish. You're big enough now that you killed that nurse.”

“That was on you. You leaked info, and it got her killed.”

“No, mate, that's not how anyone will see it. It's all about spin, and I'm gonna spin you into the ground.”

“I'm sorry you feel that way.”

“I bet you are.”

“I'm sorry because I already got what you wanted.”

“What?”

“I got your fish, and it's better than a nurse killer.”

“Who is it?”

“Doesn't matter now. We're through.”

“Now don't be hasty, mate. Maybe we can work something out, provided you give me something big.”

“What? You'll just let me slide — I don't buy it.”

“Where you're sitting right now, you've got no choice. You can be on the news tonight for sure, or maybe not at all. You serve me up something nice that I can use, and I'll be good to you. You try and dance with me again, and no amount of medicine will bring you back.”

“Ten-thirty, be ready. I'll tell you where to meet me.” I hung up the phone before Morrison could protest. He already had enough on me to make me an inmate for life, and showing him up in his own car hurt his pride. But angry as the cop was, he was greedy. When he found me, he knew I was into something he couldn't put his finger on. His gut told him enough about me to push him into springing me from the hospital. He was willing to go outside the law to get someone better than me. That kind of ambition was stronger than heroin; it would call to him louder than his bruised ego. It would also make him dangerous. He had no loyalty to me; I could only count on the knowledge that Morrison was only out to build himself up by taking someone else down. I had to push him off centre to get things where I needed them to be. I pulled the car out of the lot and headed to Sherman Avenue.

Morrison had said that the bar on Sherman was a popular mob hangout. I chose the bar because it would attract the kind of people I was looking for more than the restaurant or hall he told me about ever would. I eased the Volvo through traffic until I found Barton and Sherman and the Hammer and Sickle. The bar was a single building set back from the street with a stairwell leading down to a front entrance. At street level, there were window seats behind tinted glass. There were no neon pub signs, which were so common to the bars of Hamilton, and no patio. The bar was not looking for the patronage of the locals; it catered to a specific audience who wanted nothing to do with the trendy bar scene.

I checked the mirror. No one was behind me. I slowed the car to a stop in the middle of the street and looked through the tinted bar windows. The window seats were empty, and a blond woman was wiping a table down. It was only
7
:
30
— still too early for the bar to be busy. There would probably be after-work drinkers inside stationed at regular seats getting a buzz to fight the tension headache brought on by sitting behind a desk all day. The people I was looking for would not be stopping by for a drink after work. By my watch, the people I wanted wouldn't start work for another few hours.

Headlights caught my eye in the rear-view, and I accelerated away from the restaurant. I turned at the corner and stopped to check out the rear lot. Of the four private parking spaces out back, three were filled with black Mercedes. The back also had a Dumpster and a rear exit door. I drove into the vacant spot and got out. The Dumpster smell hit me as soon as I touched the pavement, a sign the bar was active and not just a front. I checked the cars first; the three hoods were cool to the touch. I scanned the lot for anything I might have missed and got back behind the wheel. I looped the building twice more searching the area for anything that might become a problem. There were no loitering men or suspicious vehicles anywhere within two blocks — until my car parked across the street from the front door.

It took just over three hours for me to spot what I had been waiting for. One man, in his late fifties, flanked by four younger men approaching the bar. No one spoke as they entered. They weren't friends — they were employer and employees. The old man was wearing a dark grey suit under an unbuttoned trench coat. His associates all wore black leather jackets. The styles varied, but they were all part of the standard bodyguard uniform. The men all had short haircuts and hard faces. None of them wore jeans. I figured the pleated dress pants were a sign that the bodyguards often had to follow the old man into nicer places than the Hammer and Sickle, and they knew enough to blend in. They didn't know enough to wear shoes that were made for work though. Their shoes were shiny leather, stylish; none appeared to have a strong toe or tread. Professionals never compromised functionality for appearance. They worried about the job first and how they looked second. Only lackeys cared if their shoes matched the occasion. One of the underlings held the door while another scanned the outside of the restaurant. I had my hand on the key in the ignition ready to move if I was made, but the scan passed over the car once, then twice.

The fact that none of the men noticed a car parked across the street as a threat confirmed what the shoes told me. The rabble moved into the restaurant, in a sloppy huddle, keeping the old man in the centre until the door was cleared.

The location, the clothes, and the poorly practised movements confirmed that the old man was a heavy in the Russian mob. He wasn't top shelf; the security was too sloppy, but he could have been a numbers man, an underboss, or even a visiting associate from back home. I had never seen him in dealings I had with the Russians.

I started the car and drove around back of the restaurant to the still vacant space beside the Mercedes. I parked and put the keys in the front pocket of my jacket. I took off the seat belt and shifted so that I could get at the knife in my front pocket. The folding knife was a middle-of-the-market product with a four-inch blade and a sturdy locking mechanism. The handle was plastic with a raised grip that would resist prints. The blade would stay sharp for as long as I would need it, then it would sink in a sewer as deep as I needed it to.

I opened the knife and got out into the autumn air. I reversed the knife in my fist so that it could only be seen from behind me and used my free hand to ease the Volvo door shut. No one was walking by on the street as I moved to the side of the nearest German import. I hammered the knife into the rear tire, just above the rim, then moved to the other side and did the same before starting on the second and third cars. The slow leaks eased the cars gradually to the pavement; the movement was too subtle to set the car alarms off. I jogged around the building as the last of the air hissed from the tires. I opened the front door using my sleeve over my hand. My shoulder shoved the inner door open without suspicion. Without slowing down, I walked into the bar towards the tables.

Despite the city's smoking ban, the air was acrid with the scent of unfiltered European cigarettes. The clientele had shifted away from after-work drinkers to a more upscale type of clientele: the kind of upscale that still lived in the wrong part of downtown. The kind of people who could not get used to the quiet of the suburbs. The kind of people who drank hard alcohol in mob bars, dressed to the nines late on a Wednesday. At every table I passed, fair-skinned men and women with light hair were seated. Each face possessed the sharp features of Russia and the cold eyes of a hard people. The women were dressed stylishly, too stylishly for the bar — too stylishly for the city, and they were all far younger than the men they accompanied. Each young woman leaned into conversations with devotion, expressing interest in subtle nods and not-so-subtle displays of cleavage. The men all had the same dangerous expressions and the scars to verify them. The fancy rings and jewellery on hands, wrists, and ears fooled no one. They weren't bankers or lawyers — they were hoods who made good in the city.

Few faces turned from their dates to watch me walking by. My clothes were dull and nondescript, and they pulled no one's eyes to me. Anyone who did happen to look my way saw that I carried my own dangerous expression. There was no point trying to camouflage myself inside the Hammer and Sickle — the men inside could smell their own, and trying to mask what I was would only make me more conspicuous. To them I was just another grinder — they just had no idea who I grinded for.

I found the entrance to the kitchen behind the bar. One segment of the counter was raised to allow rear access, and the blond waitresses covering the tables used the space to move freely back and forth. My eyes glanced from the bar to the biggest group of people. My body followed my eyes, and I loped around two tables so that I approached the seated group of men head on. The old man I saw enter was in the centre of a corner booth. He was flanked by his men — well protected from contact with anyone in the bar. Anybody who wanted to speak with the old man would have to work through the layers of muscled insulation. I didn't want to talk with the old man. I let him see me coming. We locked eyes, and he gave me a hard stare. His look dissolved when he saw my face pull into a grin. Confusion cracked his ice-hard stare. Then I drew the police pistol and put a bullet in his chest.

The bodyguards did two things. The men directly to his left and right shielded themselves, while the men farther out lunged for the old man. They tried to climb over the cringing men to plug the red plume pumping out from under the old man's shirt. I pivoted and immersed myself in the pandemonium that had erupted. I had a few seconds to disappear before the bodyguards came to their senses and came after me. I threaded through the crowd and grabbed one of the waitresses. She probably thought me to be just an inconsiderate coward; I was no coward — I was just an inconsiderate man in need of a human shield. The sound of a curse coming from the waitress was deafened by the bark of a gun shot mingling with the cymbal crash of a bottle shattering behind the bar. I bent low and hustled behind the bar. I left the waitress blocking the doorway and ran into the kitchen as more bottles gave up their spirits to the air.

As soon as I rounded the first corner, I straightened and ran to the exit. The door was still closed — all of the kitchen staff stood frozen, staring at the doorway to the bar. I guessed shots weren't unheard of but probably unusual at such an early hour. I shouldered open the door and slid behind the wheel of the unlocked Volvo.

Inside the Volvo, I revved the engine and rolled down the window. I aimed the Glock out the window at the back door, resting my arm on the window sill. It took five seconds for the door to burst open and four bullets to send everyone back inside. I put the Volvo in reverse and screeched onto the street. I hooked backwards onto Sherman, shifting into drive while the car slid across the worn pavement. No shots came from the back of the restaurant, and no cars followed me as I raced away from the Hammer and Sickle.

I pulled into the first Tim Hortons I saw and parked out of sight from the road. I powered up the cell phone and called
911
.

“There were shots fired at the Hammer and Sickle on Sherman. A man is dead. Please hurry. Oh, no!” I hung up the phone, powered it down, then walked into the coffee shop. I spent an hour eating muffins and drinking tea before I decided to turn on the phone again. I pulled out Detective Sergeant Huata Morrison's card and dialled his cell number.

“Morrison.”

“It's me.”