Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle (41 page)

Even before he could say hello, he heard a heavily accented voice ask, “What did you tell him?”

“What did I tell who? Who is this?”

“What did you tell the cop?”

Realizing that stalling wasn't going to help him, Ned replied, “Nothing.”

“I'm serious, Macnair. What exactly did you tell him?”

Ned pulled over. “I told him the truth—that I was lost in this big city and stopped to ask for directions.” He heard the man on the other side laugh, then continued. “I also told him they invited me in for a drink. Since I have no criminal record, he let me go with a ticket.”

“Give the ticket to the Serbians, they will take care of it.”

Then the man hung up.

Even before he arrived at work Monday morning, Ned had even more contempt for his dead-end job. His taste of adventure and money making had made him hungry for more. And it had ratcheted up his dislike for his job and the people there. When Dolores—a short, fat and smug woman who liked to laugh at things that weren't funny and had decorated her cubicle with hundreds of photos of her cats—told him that he looked like he had “a bad case of the Mondays,” it was all he could do not to smack her.

Chuck and Bob had been avoiding him. When Ned finally cornered Chuck, all the Serbian would say was “wait until lunch.”

When lunch break finally arrived, Ned was anxious. Chuck and Bob ushered him outside. The few picnic tables on the grassy area beside the building were already filling up with chattering employees. In good weather Ned and the Serbians usually ate in the parking lot with the Mexicans, but they passed by their normal spot without stopping. Instead, they took him to a freeway on-ramp about a hundred yards away. It was so loud beside the steady stream of cars that they literally had to shout to hear one another.

“They like you!” Chuck told him. “They want you to come back! They think you are funny.”

Ned smiled. “I don't know about that. I got stopped by a detective on the way back. I think he's watching who goes in and out pretty good.”

“Don't worry about cops,” Bob said.

“No, this guy seemed pretty adamant.”

“What is ‘adamant'?”

“Serious, he was serious.”

“Only because cops have no sense of humor.”

“No, this one knows what's going on.”

“Really? I don't even know what's going on,” said Chuck. Then he paused. “Look, if you don't want to work for us, that's fine we can always . . .”

“I didn't say that,” Ned said, hoping he hadn't sounded too desperate. “It's just that this cop . . .”

“Let us take care of the cops.”

Ned felt his phone vibrate. He pulled it out of his pocket. The call display indicated that he was getting a call from “Asshole.” He pointed to it. “I gotta take this,” he told Chuck and Bob and started walking away from the on-ramp.

When it was quiet enough, he answered. “Hey, Dave, waddaya want?”

“Hey now, is that any way to talk to the man who keeps you alive and out of prison?” Dave asked mockingly. “How about a ‘How was your weekend?' or ‘How's it going?'”

Ned grunted.

“Okay, be that way,” Dave said. “But you have got some pretty big questions to answer, my young friend.”

“Like what?”

“Like what the fuck you were doing in the middle of Detroit without telling me?”

“Well, I . . .”

“Stop right there, I don't have time for one of your bullshit stories right now. Get your ass in here tomorrow.”

“I got work.”

“I'll call your boss. Just get in here. If we make it three, you can have the rest of the afternoon off without you having to go back to work.”

“Thanks.”

“Whatever, but you had better have a good reason and you had better be telling the truth. If it's anything other than someone stole your car and your wallet and drove to the Motor City, you could find yourself in a world of shit.”

“I understand. Tomorrow at three then.”

Chuck and Bob had gone back to the parking lot to eat. Ned joined them, and they talked about lots of things, none of which had anything to do with what happened in Detroit.

As one o'clock approached, people began filing back into the building at different rates. Ned trudged back in between Chuck and Bob. “I don't see how it's going to work out,” he told them.

“Don't worry about the details,” Chuck said. “We will work it out.”

Ned did not actively hate Dave—and he knew that his association with the FBI had allowed him not only to beat a murder rap, but had also probably saved his life—but there were few things he hated more than visiting his watchdog. Sometimes they met at coffee shops or fast-food places, but when they had something serious to talk about, they met at his office.

Since a big part of Dave's job involved meeting with victims, witnesses and those in the witness protection program, he had a small office in Marcus Hook, Pennsylvania, about halfway between Wilmington and the FBI's regional headquarters in Philadelphia. It was upstairs from an old knick-knack shop and had a sign that read “F & E Schwartz, Immigration Law.” Ned asked him about it once and Dave said it kept locals from nosing around and “justified the clientele.”

Inside, it was a stuffy, nearly windowless office cluttered with the sorts of detritus an immigration lawyer might require. Dave was behind the desk. He was a robust, red-faced man with what had once been reddish blond hair. His ruddy complexion was made worse by his habit of wearing blue shirts with white collars and cuffs and augmenting them with gold pins and cufflinks. Nearly always a size or two too small and crisply starched, his shirts seemed to be struggling to hold in his saggy neck. He turned to face Ned when he heard him enter, and Ned saw that his watery blue eyes were looking at him with a great deal of suspicion.

“How's my favorite snitch?”

Ned just smirked. “Hey Dave.”

“You have a lot of explaining to do, little mister.”

“Do I?”

“I'd say so . . . hmm, ah, here it is . . . I get to work on Monday morning and get this.” He tossed a printout of a spreadsheet to Ned, who was now seated across the desk from him. Ned could see the name “Eric Steadman” covered in neon pink highlighter. Beside it was a charge and farther along was the place of the infraction and some other factual information, including the name “Det. Halliday.” Dave snorted, and asked “What do you have to say to that, Sonny Jim?”

Ned smiled as confidently as he could muster and shook his head. “I got a ticket.”

Dave looked as him with a face that was half condescending and half beseeching. “While I realize that running a stop sign isn't really a federal matter,” he said to Ned mockingly, “the fact that you drove about six hundred miles through—wait, Delaware, Jersey? No, not Jersey. Pennsylvania, Ohio and Michigan—four states just to get one is actually what I find interesting.”

Remembering that his “looking for parts” story worked well with the cop in Detroit, he tried it again. “Y'know my bike?”

“Yeah, I know your bike,” Dave scoffed. “The one I told you not to buy because it makes you stand out? The one that makes you easily recognized and therefore vulnerable? The one I told you repeatedly not to buy? Yeah, I remember that bike.”

“Well, it needs parts.”

“Of course it does,” Dave hissed. “The damn thing's older than Jesus.”

“Yeah, and these guys have them,” Ned softened his tone, feigning contrition. “I knew you were against the bike in the first place and would be angry if I went cross-country for parts, so I didn't want to tell you.”

Ned looked at him questioningly.

“And not telling me could lead to the end of your eligibility for the program and perhaps even criminal charges and potentially prison time.”

Ned's look of anxiety was genuine.

“Yeah, there are a lot of guys inside and out who'd like nothing better than to be known as the guy who killed off Ned Aiken,” Dave said gravely. “You lose our support, and you might as well put a ‘shoot me' sign on your back.” He couldn't help but laugh a little.

Ned sighed and said, “Understood.”

Ned had hardly gotten back to his place when he slumped down in the only chair in his one-room apartment. He really wanted to lie down in bed, but that would be too much like giving up. He took the Wendy's burger and fries he had bought himself for dinner out of the paper bag, and absent-mindedly turned on the TV. As he was unwrapping his dinner, his phone rang. “Unknown number” flashed on the display. Ned thought about ignoring it, but eventually answered. “Hello.”

“Eric, it's me, Chuck,” said the voice on the other side. “You eaten dinner yet?”

“I was just about to.”

“Look, we wanted to talk with you after work but when you left early we did not have a chance,” Chuck said. “We have a few important things to discuss—things that will make you very happy.”

Ned laughed. “I'm kinda busy right now.”

“No, you aren't.”

Ned laughed for real this time. “Okay, you got me, you can buy me dinner.”

“Good, go to the Sandwich Shoppe out in Hilltop.”

Ned knew where it was. He didn't live far away. “Right. Well, it's better than what I have. What time?”

“We're already here.”

It did not take Ned long to get there. It looked like any one of the thousands of Sandwich Shoppes across the States, except this one had a “Closed” sign on the door. Ned found that to be strange considering that it was probably the busiest time of day for such a restaurant, except maybe for lunch. He saw Bob and Chuck inside and tried the door. It was locked. Chuck saw him, walked over and unlocked the door.

“Hey, Eric. Come on in.” Ned noticed he locked the door behind him.

“Shouldn't this place be open?” he asked. “There's nothing wrong with the food, is there?”

“No, no, no, no, food is fine,” laughed Chuck. “The owner is good friend of mine, lets me use restaurant as meeting place when is necessary.”

“Won't he lose business?”

“Entire neighborhood is nothing but Mexicans and other new immigrants—the thought of Italian sandwiches confuses them, they don't eat here,” Chuck said. “Besides, I pay him.” Then he shouted something in Serbian and the guy behind the counter nodded with what appeared to be a great deal of resignation. “Back home, I used to work for him,” Chuck said, pointing over his shoulder at the dark and haggardly older man. “He was a mean boss—what you call asshole here, but we have worse name back home—now he works for me, and he finds I am maybe even meaner boss.” He shouted something at the man who was hurriedly making sandwiches. Ned wasn't sure what the man said back, but he appeared to be trying to get Chuck to calm down or at least get off his back. He brought the three of them sandwiches and retreated behind the counter where he sat in a chair and read a newspaper. No matter what Chuck said about paying him, Ned could tell this guy was some pissed off at missing his dinner rush.