THUGLIT Issue Four (7 page)

Outside Diana scanned the area. She didn’t see what she was looking for, until she went around the building to the overflow parking lot in the rear. She knew an unmarked car when she saw one, and the old acquaintance behind the wheel of this dark blue Taurus confirmed it. He gave her a sheepish grin.

“Hey, Diana.”

“McGarrity, what’s up?”

“Wasting time, that’s what. Comes with the job.”

“I assume you were listening.”

“Yeah, she’s wired. Orders from on high.”

“Relax, I didn’t think this was your idea.”

“Like we don’t have better things to worry about. You don’t make us lo
ok bad, so we don’t bother you. Everybody’s happy except the brass.”

“I doubt the brass like pressure from politicos.”

“You’re probably right.”

“And to think I could have made myself bulletproof.”

“How?”

“By taking Len Howard on as a client. His right-hand man came to me about it.”

“He’d throw you under the bus in a second.”

“I know. That was irony. What’s your hold on Jacki? Does she get to stay out of jail?”

“She’s cooperating voluntarily,” said McGarrity. “Seems she’s born again.”

“Maybe I should go back and tell her about Howard’s hobby.”

“Hell, she knows. She says human nature is frail.”

“You know, I like that. If I ever get busted, I’ll plead human frailty.”

“It only works for guys. Even then it’s just the ones with juice.”

“Don’t I know it.”

The whole business should have been history, but it didn’t feel like history. She couldn’t figure out why, until she got a page from an unfamiliar number.

Most women in the business had gone to cell phones for business, but Diana planned to stick with the old pager and pay phone system for as long as she could. She found it more secure. She dropped coins and punched buttons.

“My name is Len Howard,” said a male voice.

“Oh. Mr. Howard.”

With most new clients it took some effort to pry a name out of them. Mary Alice must be right about Howard. He was in the giddy, reckless stage of this new hobby. He might be s
eeing two or three women a day.

The negotiations took hardly any time.

“Gifts in the two-hundred-dollar range are appreciated,” she told him.

“That’s fine. The Savoy Motel?”

That surprised her for a moment, but it shouldn’t have.

“You understand,” he said, “Current political factors make it necessary for me to stay out of Warren County for matters like this. Don’t soil the nest, you know what I mean.”

“Of course.”

“I hope you know that this situation won’t last. It’s an unfortunate necessity.”

Fucking us and then arresting us
, Diana could have said but didn’t.
Unfortunate, yes. Necessity, I don’t know.

“Whatever you need to do,” was what she did say.

As long as that included paying her.

The Savoy was five minutes away. She seldom used it anymore, and mostly for a few clients who dated back to her earliest days, when she hadn’t known enough to maintain a bigger privacy zone. But the client’s money talked, and if it said the Savoy, the Savoy it was.

She arrived two minutes early and got out of the car. Before locking the door and committing herself, she looked around. She didn’t like what she saw.

The problem was a dark Lexus sitting in the far corner of the lot. Most men who bought sex parked as close as they could to the sanctuary of the motel room or office. The windows of the Lexus were also fogged, as if someone was still in it.

There was a first time for everything, but she had never seen the cops use a car like that on stakeout. Somehow that didn’t make her feel better, and she decided to listen to
her instincts.

She got back into her Taurus and thrust the key into the ignition. She started the engine and tried to back up. The tires of the Lexus screeched as the luxury car accelerated into her path. Three doors flew open. Porterfield’s two young thugs lurched out onto the blacktop. The two young men ran toward her, as she put the transmission in drive and wrenched the wheel. If she could make her turn circle tight enough, she could get to the exit before they got to her.

She missed, and had to stop and try to reverse. The transmission stuck for a moment in neutral. In that moment one of the young men yanked her driver’s door open and grabbed her bicep. He had a painful grip.

That’s what I get
, she thought.

She should have gone to the mechanic right away. Reaching for the manual door lock had been one thing too many while sh
e was doing everything at once.

Porterfield climbed out of the Lexus and strolled up to her with that insufferable look on his face.

“We’re going to take a ride.”

“Mr. Howard is waiting for me.”

“Let him. He’s already seen two of your colleagues today.”

The young man pulled her out of her seat. He and his twin marched her to the Lexus and pushed her into the back seat. The same young man joined her in the back and this time clutched her right arm. He seemed to enjoy inflicting pain, which didn’t surprise her.

The other young man drove. Should she learn their names? She was seeing a lot of them. Porterfield turned his body in the passenger seat to look at her.

“I need you to do something for me.”

She ignored him. She would find out soon enough what he wanted, and right now she felt like annoying him. He turned away.

They drove south on Route 15 and picked up I-80 west. That told her what she needed to know. Three exits later they left the interstate and pulled into the pa
rking lot of the no-name motel.

The three men climbed out. Diana didn’t feel like cooperating, but the driver came back to open her door and pull her from the seat. Again the two bodyguards pinned her between them. They walked her toward a room around the side of the square building. Porterfield took a key card from his suit coat pocket. He inserted it in a room marked 117.

“In,” he told her.

He turned to the two young men. “Wait outside.”

Inside the room the lights were on. She could hardly miss Jacki lying on the floor.

Diana had seen death a number of times, and as always, there was no mistaking it. Jacki lay on her back. She had surrendered unconditionally to gravity, and her head tilted so sharply to her left that her temple rubbed her shoulder. Only a broken neck would permit such an angle.

Diana pulled her eyes away and focused on Porterfield.

“Why?” she said. “Why would he kill her?”

Porterfield’s lack of expression told her everything.

“He didn’t. Howard didn’t kill her. You did. Do your sidekicks know that? I’ll bet they don’t. They’d accept it from Howard, but not from you.”

Still no reaction from him.

“You pathetic piece of shit. You wanted some of your boss’s scraps, and she wouldn’t put out. Right?”

“I didn’t kill her,” said Porterfield. “You did.”

“I figured that was what this is about.”

“You confronted her about trying that sting on you. And you argued, and you broke her neck.”

“I’m in shape, but I’m not that strong.”

“You were in a rage. You didn’t know your own strength.”

She decided it wasn’t worth arguing. Porterfield took her silence for surrender.

“Now you’re going to call 911 and confess. I know cops. They love a confession, and they’ll love taking two of you off the board at once.”

“Why would I confess?”

“To stay alive. If you don’t you’ll disappear. People like you disappear all the time.”

“And if I do?”

“You’ll do a few years for manslaughter. Free room and board. Then you get out and get on with your pathetic life. There will be some money for you in it.”

“Money,” said Diana. “Now you’re speaking my language.”

Porterfield hadn’t expected that. He studied her.

“Be very sure about this. Don’t think you can put anything over on me. If I get that idea, I’ll get rid of you and take my chances.”

“You don’t give me much choice.”

That seemed to satisfy him. He took out a c
ell phone and handed it to her.

“It’s prepaid,” he said. “It can’t be traced to me. And it’s expired, so don’t bother trying to call anyone but
911.”

“You’ve thought of everything.”

“That’s what I do for a living.”

Diana took the phone and made the call. She explained where she was to the operator.

“Somebody’s dead here. It just happened.”

The operator sounded as if she heard it all the time. “Stay on the line. The officers will be right there.”

Porterfield stared at her for another long moment. When he was satisfied, he opened the door and closed it behind him. Through the door she heard the faint sound of an upscale engine starting and then accelerating smoothly. It faded, but she knew the Lexus would stay close by.

The operator asked one innocuous question, and then another. It was obvious what she was trying to do.

“Relax,” said Diana. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Five minutes later came a knock, the kind that only cops k
new how to do.

“They’re here,” Diana told the operator.

She ended the call and set the phone down on the cheap table in the corner. She opened the door. It was just one young man in uniform. She didn’t know him. He looked so young that she was afraid she had been hooking longer than he had been breathing.

Diana nodded toward Jacki’s body on the floor. The young cop motioned to her to turn around and raise her arms. He frisked her and then cuffed her wrists behind her. It was her second experience of handcuffs, and
the experience hadn’t improved.

He pointed to the flimsy chair by the cheap circular table in the corner of the room. She went and sat. With her hands and arms trapped between her own back and the hard back of the chair, she hoped she wouldn’t have to stay there long.

She didn’t speak. Neither did the officer. About fifteen very long minutes later another knock sounded. The uniformed officer opened the door and admitted the detective Diana had been hoping for. That was the good thing about small police departments.

“Hey, Diana.”

“McGarrity, what’s up?”

He nodded at the uniformed officer, who went outside
and closed the door behind him. McGarrity looked at Jacki on the floor and then back at Diana.

“
Switchboard says you confessed.”

“Not exactly.”

He looked around some more. He was slow and methodical about it.

“So,” he said. “What are those assholes trying to pull?”

She explained.

“Could be hard to prove if the bodyguards back him up,” said McGarrity.

“They will. You have a smartphone?”

“A dinosaur like me? Come on.”

“I don’t either. Your uniform looks young enough to be digital.”

McGarrity went to the door and opened it. He spoke to the uniformed officer, who came back inside. McGarrity nodded, and the young man unlocked the handcuffs. Diana refused to rub her wrists in front of the two cops, but the relief was sweet.

“Give her your phone for a minute.”

The young cop was careful to keep his face expressionless, but disapproval came through in his movements. He held his cell phone out at arm’s length. Diana took it and thumbed in numbers that she knew well. She was af
raid the call would go to voicemail, but Mary Alice answered.

“You still have that picture of Len Howard? Email it to this number, okay?”

“What happened to taking your lumps?”

“That was when we were talking about a hooker bust. This is a lot more than that.”

“Okay, but I’m earning some ‘I told you so’ points here.”

“No argument from me.”

The photo arrived seconds later. Diana held the phone out to McGarrity.

“Please,” he said. “I just ate.”

“Try being me for a day.”

“How am I supposed to use this?”

“You can lie to a suspect, can’t you?”

“Howard’s not a suspect.”

“Make him think he is. Make him think Jacki took the picture. Then give him a chance to throw Porterfield under the bus. When he does that, the two sidekicks will give him up. They know he was here.”

He nodded.

“I’ve made it work with less than that. No guarantees, though.”

“Kind of like life.”

by Sam Wiebe

Mid-afternoon and the sky was a wreath of smoke over the ash-gray water. The Bastard would be on the afternoon ferry from Departure Bay. His first time on the mainland since retirement.

From the terminal parking lot the Old Man watched the fat white boat cut a stately pace through the gray waves. Ten minutes. Rain swept over the windshield in streaks. The Old Man rotated the ignition key enough to make the wiper blades fling the water to the margins of the pane. The Bastard was long-legged and extremely tall. Remembering this, the Old Man bent and adjusted the passenger’s seat back. Then he opened the glovebox and transferred the pistol to the stash below the armrest.

The boat docked. The ramp came down. The foot passengers left the vehicle deck. The Bastard was last off the boat, trailing behind two crew members. His clothes were outdated. Old age had stooped him, undercutting his height. The Old Man flipped on the headlights. The Bastard veered toward them without seeming to change direction. The Bastard’s paleness and height made his movements seem uncanny, almost spectral.

When both of them were in the car they shook hands.

“Hope the ferry ride was tolerable,” the Old Man began.

“Infrequency makes it so. And yourself?”

“Alive. Healthy.”

“And therein lies the problem.”

Even with the seat reclined, the Bastard’s knees grazed the underside of the dash. The Old Man had turned slightly to face him. The Bastard stared straight ahead, smiling. His smile coaxed unpleasant memories from the Old Man.

“Retirement doesn’t agree with everyone,” the Bastard said. “Your responsibilities dwindle. You linger over past mistakes. I assume your invitation sprang from sheer boredom.”

“We have unfinished business,” the Old Man said.

“You might. Myself, I’m living a fulfilling retirement.”

“But you’re here.”

“Only to prevent you coming to me. But yes. I’m here. Speak.”

“I’ve had health problems,” the Old Man said. “I come through ‘em all right, but I got to thinking about regrets. ‘Member the last time we saw each other?”

“That would be Bonn,” the Bastard said. “Shortly before the Amnesty.”

The Old Man nodded. “I saw you come out of a picture show. You’d gotten Higgs and Mulcahy the day before. And Chen, I think, though we didn’t find her till after.”

“I remember Chen,” the Bastard said fondly. “Now that was a job.”

“I followed you three blocks, arguing with myself, whether or not to kill you.”

“And?”

“I made the wrong choice.”

“Since we’re both still here,” the Bastard said, “I’d respectfully disagree. And perhaps remind you that it was your side that declared Amnesty and forced retirement on us all. One can’t break rules to uphold rules.”

“I don’t know that the rules apply to you.”

“Do you have a gun within reach?”

The Old Man nodded. The Bastard smiled.

“I’ve never found much use for them.”

“Too fast for you, I expect. Over too soon.”

“Hardly,” the Bastard said. “I consider firearms a tool of domination. They’re most effective, as you know, in situations that don’t absolutely necessitate their use. Cowards oppressing cowards. The righteous tool is the one that consumes both wielder and adversary, making each encounter a battle of destinies.”

“Tell all that to Chen.”

“I did,” the Bastard said. “Showed her the detonator and she surrendered herself to me.”

“And you took her apart. ‘Long with three or four civilians.”

“Weapons of absolute liberty are indiscriminate.”

The Old Man thought about this. “You’re wired now?”

“Of course. Always.”

“Since retirement? Even in your home?”

“It’s only paranoia if you can guarantee no one’s coming for you. If people will hold to the rules of retirement without exception. Your call disproves that.”

The ferry was now taking in cars for its return trip. The parking lot had been emptied save for the Old Man’s rental and two others. A line of cabs waited by the terminal entrance, the drivers gossiping under the awning.

“As I see it,” the Bastard said quietly, “it comes down to whether your late-blooming sense of justice equals my need for unqualified, unhindered freedom. Whether you wish to make that trade.”

The Old Man lifted the armrest and produced the gun. Carefully he placed it on the dashboard. They stared at it. The killing machine’s barrel stared back at them with the simple blunt defiance of an unadorned fact.

The Bastard nodded. He didn’t gloat. “I believe I’ll catch that return ferry.”

The Old Man’s hand wavered over the lock mechanism. “What if I told you I accept that trade?”

“I don’t know I’d believe you,” the Bastard said.

“Then hit the damn detonator.”

The foghorn of another inbound vessel sounded.

“Seems a shabby end for two professionals,” the Bastard said.

“One professional. One war criminal.”

“As you fancy. How about something more sporting?”

“You’re talking a fair fight?” The Old Man listened attentively.

“I saw a film once,” the Bastard said. “Two great swordsmen agree to duel to the death. They set a year for preparations. They choose a remote island. One year to the day, they row to the beach and do battle, steel on steel. I won’t ruin the conclusion.”

“I can guess,” the Old Man said. “Name the island.”

“There are two in Nanaimo Harbor. Protection Island is residential. Newcastle is a public reserve.”

“So Newcastle.”

“Protection. After dark. At an aptly-named landmark called Gallows Point.”

“Civilians--”

“We’ll be discreet.”

The Old Man thought it over and nodded.

“One year from today then,” the Bastard said. “It’s something to look forward to.” Smiling. “Now. Shall we flip a coin to decide who steps out of the car first?”

*****

It was possible of course that the Bastard meant to murder him prior to their rendezvous. The Old Man found it good practice to live as if that was likely. He’d always lived aware of others, of the slightest variation in mood or noise. Now he once again had reason to.

He learned about Protection Island. The history of the coal mines that ran underneath Nanaimo Harbor. The explosion that had killed a hundred whites and fifty-three Chinese. Protection Island’s rebirth as homes for the wealthy. He studied nearby Newcastle Island too, since at low tide one could wade between them. A rare species of albino raccoon prowled its shores. A Hawaiian convict lay buried on Newcastle in an unmarked location. The Old Man studied them but he didn’t visit them. That would somehow violate the pact he and the Bastard had made. He’d have to cede to the Bastard the advantage of terrain.

He picked his tools and his attire carefully. He knew the Bastard might use explosives. The Bastard favored cheap radio detonators and the most rudimentary land mines. That was another advantage the Old Man would yield. He would never employ explosives again.

He decided on an air taxi to take him across the Georgia Straight to Nanaimo, and then a rented boat with a thick plastic windshield and a powerful outboard motor. He wanted to limit his exposure on the water. The Bastard might decide that the contest began when the first one of them reached Gallows Point. And the Old Man knew the Bastard would be there first.

He considered his own advantages but took no comfort in them.

*****

In the air the Old Man settled his stomach and said his goodbyes to the city. He was anxious. How could he not be? He had done nothing like this—nothing at all, really—for years.

He held two fingers to his neck and listened to the thrum of the plastic replacement heart in his chest. His pulse was elevated but steady. He thought of Chen, of Higgs and Mulcahy. He wondered what they would’ve been like at his age. Would they have taken to retirement? Higgs, maybe. Not the others.

He’d outfitted himself in dark clothing and carried his gear in a red nylon hockey bag. He’d tinted his hair dark so that no one would try to assist him with his luggage out of sympathy. He’d avoid people, but more importantly they’d avoid him.

In a Nanaimo diner he put away acidic coffee and stared at grub he didn’t want. He reminded himself he was doing this for justice. Not selfish reasons like revenge. Least of all out of idleness, the “sheer boredom” the Bastard had spoken of. He’d settle things with the Bastard, get justice, or go down swinging, the way the others had.

At dusk he walked to the marina and paid a man in cash for the use of the boat. The Old Man checked it thoroughly. He inspected the motor and made sure there were no superfluous wires. Satisfied, he paid the dealer. The dealer told him to be careful, boating at night.

Protection Island wasn’t five miles from shore. Houses and moored yachts gleamed in the fading light. Newcastle lay to the north, thick deciduous forest set back from peach-colored sand.

His new vessel was called the
Bran Mak Morn
. The name meant nothing to him.

Halfway across the bay he realized he had to piss. He could see no one on the docks, nothing glinting from the yachts save the odd bit of brass or chrome trim. He eased off the throttle until the boat was coasting and did his business off the port side, feeling exposed. The city glow from the harbor was slight. It wasn’t tourist season.

The sun fell. There was a light rain. He slipped a paddle into the water, preferring not to use the motor for the last part. He knew the Bastard was watching him. Probably had been since he cast off from the marina. But from where, was the question. If it was him…

The Old Man considered it. The best vantage would be one of the houses, or the trees behind them. The yachts would offer an advantage of proximity and escape. But he wasn’t sure the Bastard would employ the water. The stooped way he’d moved back on the mainland…

The Old Man chastised himself. He was falling into familiar patterns of thought, patterns that hadn’t helped him back before retirement. You couldn’t anticipate the Bastard. You couldn’t outthink him. The Old Man would have to trust his instincts, and treat Protection Island as if every square foot could be weaponized.

He clambered out of the boat onto the jetty. He’d bent to retrieve the bag when a bullet punched through the windshield close to his cheek.

Off-kilter, he tipped clumsily back into the boat and flattened himself. His hearing was still keen, but he hadn’t heard the shot.

Lying staring up at the stars he put the trajectory together. It had come from Newcastle Island. A precision shot, more than half a mile. He hadn’t expected the Bastard to use a rifle.

He turned onto his belly, spun around and peered up through the screen. He could see nothing on the other island save the outline of trees. The adrenaline chill was a comfort.

He set to work. First he slipped down into the seat and brought the engine to life. Keeping his head low, he corrected the course so the boat would graze the western point of Newcastle Island. It might run aground. It didn’t matter either way.

A nylon cord would keep the wheel from correcting. He eased up the throttle and secured that, then flicked on the pair of powerful lamps built into the prow of the boat.

He heard the crack of the second shot, and the third, both aimed at the neon lamps that lit up the beach on Newcastle. The Old Man slung the bag over his arm. He killed the lamps and in the sudden darkness dropped into the water.

The water was cold and he couldn’t quite touch bottom. It took effort to pull the floating bag underwater. He couldn’t have it bobbing above the waves as he swam.

He’d scouted Newcastle well and knew that the rocky eastern beach offered the best cover and the shortest stretch of exposed ground to the trees. Northeast, the sandbars rose and it was there you could walk between islands at low tide. The Bastard might wait for him there. He might already be waiting at the eastern beach. In the past the Old Man had often felt that the Bastard had access to his thought processes. He wondered what preparations the Bastard had made. Perhaps none. Maybe that morning the Bastard had simply taken down the rifle, stuffed his pockets with cartridges, and set out to ambush the Old Man. There was no accounting for the Bastard.

Water crept into his nostrils. He swam awkwardly, the bag upending him, careful his strokes didn’t break the water’s surface. He paused to take in air and check that the
Bran Mak Morn
was still on target. It seemed to be slowing. He reached the rocky isthmus and felt his waterlogged shoes touch the island. Above the lap of the waves he could hear little. He pulled himself up, remaining behind the barnacle-flecked rocks. He’d imprinted a map of Newcastle in his mind. He knew the distance he’d have to cross to reach the forest.

In the forest he could outflank the Bastard. He could stalk him. The advantage would be his. A person could never really know a forest, and knowing that fact would give the Old Man his much-needed edge. He climbed up over the boulders. Grass and a few weather-beaten logs separated him from the nearest trees. He started across the sand.