In Plain Sight (4 page)

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“The only thing I can't figure is why you left me a handcuff key. Have the Russians got something on you? You're into them for some big numbers, and you thought I might kill whoever is holding your bill and end your troubles?”

“No idea, mate. I have no idea what you are going on about. What Russians? I got called back here because they found you gone and a nurse dead in your room.”

“Dead? How?”

“Someone cut her throat.”

“Hard for me to do in a gown.”

“Heh, you seem to be managing,” he said.

“If you didn't tip the Russians, who did?”

“I don't know.”

“Who knew I wasn't a cop killer like you said?”

“No one outside of me and Miller.”

“That fat cop?”

“Yeah, but he's straight.”

“Well, two people knew I was there, and you said it wasn't you who gave me up. It's got to be him; probably made the call on one of his smoke breaks.”

Morrison said nothing. If he was telling the truth, and my gut told me he was, then it was Miller who was crooked. The fat cop made more sense; no one would give me a way out of the cuffs if I was worth more dead than alive. Miller must be the one on the take. Once he was off guarding my unconscious body, he told the Russians about me, hoping I was someone recognizable, to make a little extra. He figured since they found me outside Domenica's, and his boss was having me guarded, I must be worth something. So Miller reached out to Igor. He had to work directly for Igor in one form or another because anyone else would have sent the information up the chain to Sergei Vidal. Had Sergei found out, I would have been safe. The head of the Russian mob and I still had an understanding. I had enough evidence on him to send him away for life. I figured our deal was still in place because if Sergei wanted to end it he would never have sent Igor to punch my ticket. Sergei would have dispatched someone closer to the top with orders to kill me. I'd gone up against Sergei's best before — they would have done better than Igor.

Morrison was quiet and motionless in the seat beside me.

“You still want your fish?”

“You're the fish now. You have to pay for that nurse.”

“Use your head, Morrison. I didn't kill anyone. I got a visit from a Russian, someone who knew me and wanted to settle up old debts. He tried to kill me, but I talked him out of it — with my hands. When I left, he was on the bed, and the nurse was very much alive. If you check the bed, there will be blood from the Russian to back up my story.”

“Bullshit.”

“You know it sounds right. Why else would I be here now?”

“So what do you want?”

“Same deal. I get your fish, you forget about me.”

“Which fish?”

“That's up to me, but I can tell you they'll be cold water fish from up near the Black Sea.”

Morrison tried to nod his head in agreement, but he stopped when he realized he couldn't move. “It will have to be one big fish to square everything.”

“Let me worry about that. I just need some information from you.”

“What?”

“Where do the Russians go these days? The only place I knew was the Kremlin, but it's probably gone.”

“Yeah, someone shot that place up a few years back; killed a bigwig.” A thought came to Morrison; I watched it form in a series of facial twitches. “That was you. That's why the Russians showed up tonight. Word on the street was that was some kind of internal cleaning thing.”

I ignored him. He had a real cop's mind. He listened, and he remembered. I had to make sure I gave away nothing because even taped to the seat this cop was dangerous. I repeated myself, “Where do the Russians meet these days? Where do all the big names end up at the end of a long, hard day of crime?”

Morrison thought about it. “There are three places,” he said. “There's a hall on Sanford, a restaurant on St. Claire, and a bar on Sherman where it meets Barton.”

“All the big names congregate in these places?”

“Congregate? Look at you. Mate, you are one educated thug. I don't think I've heard that word since Sunday school. No, wait — that was congregation. Mean the same thing, ya reckon?”

The cop was still filing away everything I said, stringing clues together into a noose. I grinned in approval towards the window so he wouldn't see. The silence hung in the air until he answered my question.

“If we lose any of the major players, or we need to pick up a tail, it's where we start looking.”

“Keep your phone on, I've got your number,” I said as I got out of the car.

“Hey! Hey, let me loose before you rack off. Hey!”

I walked back to the evergreens, away from the screams of Detective Sergeant Huata Morrison. I walked straight through the sparsely planted trees and out the other side. I jogged down James Street, away from the hospital, and into the first bar I saw. The dingy clock on the wall read
12
:
58
. I ordered a Diet Coke and called a cab.

By the time the ice in my Diet Coke had melted, the cab had shown up, and I was off. I had the cabbie take me to a gas station that sold cell phones. The drive took us all the way into Westdale, a ritzy suburb of Hamilton that had old money and the university.

I filled the gas can I'd bought earlier and went inside to buy a lighter and a prepaid cell phone. The Asian man and woman behind the counter gladly accepted my money and slowly made change while their black cat walked across my path over the top of the gum display. By the time the change was in my palm, the cat was at my feet — rubbing its back against my leg. I pushed the cat away with Igor's shoe. The cat rolled to its feet and rose — tensed. Its back was high, and each hair bristled in anticipation of a fight. Teeth were showing, and a guttural hissing climbed up out of the cat's mouth.

The lady behind the counter looked upset. “You no like cat?”

“No, I don't like the cat.”

“Why not? You think cat got bad luck?”

“I don't know if a cat crossing my path is bad luck, but fuck him if he wants to try and rub it against my leg.”

“Hunh?”

“He wants to ruin my day, he's gotta work for it like everyone else.”

No one wished me a good night when I left.

B
ack in the cab, I set up the phone and called the operator to test the signal. The electronic voice of the operator let me know everything worked. I powered down the phone and watched Westdale slip away. The rich houses and profitable small businesses slowly turned to rotted buildings and vacant storefronts. I had dreams that went like that. Everything good flying away like shrapnel while I watched from inside a cage. My parents went first, then my uncle. The only thing left was me. Dreams like that pushed me to make sure that there was nothing left to lose.

I succeeded for a time; nothing touched me. But over time, my guard wore down, and Steve and Sandra, a local bartender and his wife, became my friends. A few years back, one of Paolo's men, Tommy Talarese, tried to destroy their lives, and as a result he set in motion a chain of events that rocked the underbelly of the city. Tommy Talarese wanted to show his kid how to collect protection like a man after Steve had thrown the kid out into the street. They kidnapped Steve's wife, unleashing the bar owner like a wiry hurricane on the neighbourhood. Steve and I worked our way up the chain of local muscle to Tommy's front door. Many died getting Sandra back. I put everything on the line for them that night and made enemies with the Italians.

Steve and Sandra were two people, like my parents, who wouldn't give in. Two people who lived life on their own terms, who refused to let anyone, even mobsters, control their lives. I envied their freedom, their connection, and I made sure they kept it. By protecting their connection, it became my own. They were my weakness, and Paolo Donati exploited it. The old Italian boss used them to get me under his thumb again. I had gotten out and started a life away from what I had been — until a man came calling with a message. Paolo could touch me no matter how far I ran, and he could touch Steve and Sandra too. I was forced to come back to work a job for Paolo. Someone had kidnapped his nephews, and he feared it was someone on the inside. Paolo needed me, an outsider, to look into his own men. I found out who killed his nephews and arranged a meeting with Paolo. With Paolo gone, I wouldn't make the same mistake. I would leave Steve and Sandra out of this — I had learned that being my friend had worse odds than terminal cancer.

After fifteen minutes of driving, the cab neared Ave Maria and my car. We passed the front of the store, and I told the cab driver to pull over. It was two in the morning, and the street was empty. I got out with my things and walked to the driver side window to pay.

“Thirty even, pal.”

I showed him the gun I took off Igor. “I got a .
38
. Can you make change?”

“Holy shit! Don't kill me.”

Igor's ugly revolver coaxed the cab driver out of the car. He was a squat man, five-five at the most. He wore old pleated pants and an old, out-of-style checked shirt. The pants were held up by suspenders, but they weren't the ugliest part of the outfit. On top of his head, the cab driver wore a Blue Jays cap. The front was white foam, and the back was a blue mesh. The foam-fronted hat was barely pulled down, making it look like it was ready to float away. I guessed he wore it to make him look taller — all it did was make his head look misshapen.

“Open the gas cover.”

The driver leaned back in the open door and pulled at a lever. There was a metallic click behind me as the small plate unlocked and popped open. The driver stood up slowly and put his hands in the air voluntarily.

“This is like the third fuckin' time this year. Holy shit, I'm tired of people robbing me. Fuckin' knives and the ‘gimme the money.'” He mimed an impression of a stick-up and then put his hands back up. “I'm fucking tired of this shit.”

“Shut up and sit on the curb.”

“Do this, do that. Yes, sir, I'll do whatever you want 'cause you're the big man with the gun.”

“Sit down before I put a bullet in your ass.”

He sat, and I pulled the baby blanket out of the duffel bag. I soaked it with gas from the gas can until the fabric was sopping wet. I put the can down and ripped the aerial off the roof. I used the metal rod to jam the cheap wet fabric down into the gas tank. I pushed a wad in, cleared out the antenna, and then pushed another mass of blanket in again. I repeated the process until two-thirds of the blanket was gone. I left the antenna in the tank with the blanket and got behind the wheel.

“Sure, just take the car. It's not like it's my life or anything. It's just a hobby. I work double shifts until five in the morning to cut the stress.”

I pulled away from the curb watching the rear-view. The cab driver got off the curb and fished through his pockets looking for a phone. I grinned because I saw the phone on the seat beside me. He was having no luck tonight either; it felt good to meet another member of the bad luck club. I drove the car down the first right and hooked onto the road that ran behind Ave Maria. I took the lighter from my pocket and held it in my fist. I forced myself to calm down and drive slowly down the road. In the alley ahead was the same dark car I passed before. This time there was no giveaway that there were any occupants inside. I drove past the alley to the Volvo and dropped the duffel bag out the window. As the bag hit the pavement, I hit the brakes, shoved the gear shifter in reverse, and forced the pedal into the floor. The car screeched back to the mouth of the alley hiding the dark car. I got out of the passenger side of the cab and flicked the lighter alive. The feeble flame shuddered as I walked before maturing into a blaze when it touched the blanket. I ran to the Volvo as I heard a car door open.

I made it to the duffel bag when the explosion sent me sailing to the pavement. I regained my footing and hustled to the car. My hand went under the wheel well and pulled free the spare key. I opened the door and threw the duffel bag across the seat hard enough to bounce it off the opposite door. The engine turned over without any coaxing, and the car roared to life. The Volvo was a different breed of animal when compared to other cars on the road. The engine was a transplant; something customized to sprint. The V
8
400
horsepower engine sped me away from downtown and the mess I made, leaving only rubber behind on the pavement.

I had no idea who was watching the car. If it was the cops, the plates and the car description were whizzing past me in the air to every squad car in Hamilton. I had to get somewhere safe; somewhere I could be local while at the same time out of sight like a rabbit in a magician's hat. I hooked the car onto King Street and ran two lights. I rolled past Dundurn and floored the Volvo onto the highway putting distance between myself and the city at
140
km/h. In under a minute, I took the exit to the suburb of Ancaster and used the empty streets to drive back towards the edge of the city. I stopped on a side street before turning onto Highway Two and checked the car for bugs. I didn't want someone tracking me with a laptop to pick me up as soon as I stopped driving. When I was satisfied the car was clean, I got on the road again. I rolled down Highway Two eyeing the view off the side of the escarpment. The city of Hamilton looked full of promise from above. You couldn't see anyone hitting his wife, shooting up smack, or trying to kill a person in a hospital bed. The city from this height was a mirage.

At the bottom of the hill, I turned into the parking lot of a fleabag motel. The Escarpment was in an odd pocket of the city. There were expensive high-rises a stone's throw away in one direction and cheap apartments rented to immigrants in the other. The motel was in the middle, and its clientele leaned towards the low renters. The Escarpment Motel offered hourly rates and parking in the rear — everything I needed to stay under the radar.

I parked the car and walked into the office. A young kid sat behind the counter watching an old horror movie.

“What'cha need?”

“Room,” I said.

“How long?”

“Week.”

The amount of time made the kid's eyebrows raise, but his pupils never left the screen.

“Week'll cost ya two hundred bucks,” the kid said as he slammed his palm around the desk beside him. His eyes were glued to the movie, and he wasn't going to miss anything. His hand stopped on a rectangular piece of paper, and his fingers traced its perimeter before picking it up. “Fill this out.”

I paid with ten bills and scratched a name on the registration card. He absentmindedly handed me a key with a twelve etched on the back.

“Can I borrow a screwdriver? My luggage locked up on me, and I need to get into it so I can change.”

The kid sighed and got out of his chair. He backed away from the desk and bent at the knees in a way that allowed him to keep his eyes on the television. After a minute, he found the toolbox. It took one more minute for his unguided hands to zero in on the screwdriver.

“Here,” he said, throwing the screwdriver in my direction. It was a good throw considering he wasn't looking. “It's a multi-tool, so it's got everything.”

“Thanks.”

“Just bring it back when you're done, or I'll add it to your bill.”

“Any more on the bill and you'll have to add a star to the motel.”

The jab went over the kid's head, but he didn't seem bothered. He sat down and resumed his movie-watching trance.

I went out to the Volvo and drove it several doors down from the room. If anyone came looking for the car, I didn't want them using it as an arrow pointing directly to me. I used the cheap multi-tool screwdriver to take the plates off the Volvo. I took the two plates with me to the next parking lot. The apartment building next door was upscale enough to have tenants with cars, but still too shitty to provide a safe underground parking garage. I walked through the lot until I found an old car with two flat tires. No one had moved the car in months. I used the multi-tool to replace the car's plates with the Volvo's. I took the boosted plates back to the motel and completed the switch unnoticed before walking the screwdriver back.

“Thanks.”

“Man, when you go back to your room, turn on channel
149
. Romero is such a genius. Just look at those zombies go.”

On the
TV
screen, two lumbering monsters chased a woman around a cage. Bloodthirsty spectators screamed bets and waved money in their fists. It was some sort of post-apocalyptic gladiator game. The girl on screen did anything but kick the shit out of her slowly approaching attackers. The game in the cage was almost at an end, when out of nowhere, except to anyone watching, a handsome man shot his way on screen and killed the two zombies. He took the girl out of the cage and backed off the angry spectators with a hard stare.

I left before I got roped into a review of the talents of George A. Romero. The carnage on the screen reminded me of something else, not a movie; I thought about the nurse who had been murdered on the floor of the hospital room. Someone had put her down after she was already out. Igor was the obvious doer, but he was chained down. That left the girlfriend. Igor sent her away, but it was probable that she was the one who came back and got Igor loose. Once he was free, either one could have dealt with the nurse. I've known enough blood-thirsty women in my life to know Tatiana was as much a suspect as her man. I let myself into the motel room and sat on the bed. Igor was damaged because I had beaten him before, and the embarrassment destroyed his ego. I had broken something in him that was always destined to give way. He blamed me for his weakness, but he was already weak when he first came at me years ago in my office. I showed him what he really was when I put him under the gun. He saw his reflection for the first time in the shine of a bullet, and what he saw didn't measure up. Plenty of people figured out they weren't cut out for the life on the same day they learned that they were just man enough to fill a grave.

In the hospital room, he lied about me killing his partner to Tatiana. The lie was as good as a confession — he was the one who had killed his partner. Igor must have done it because his partner was one of the few witnesses alive who knew he failed to do his job. He killed his partner and in that instant put on a disguise. He thought everyone bought whatever manufactured confidence he wore like too much cheap cologne. He was living a lie, and I was the only one left who knew what the lie truly was. He came to kill me so that he could fully become his false self. It was more than revenge for Igor; killing me was survival.

Whatever fragile mental case Igor was didn't matter. He found me. He was connected and just powerful enough to be a problem. Worse still was the cop. The dead nurse would put enough pressure on him to renege on our deal. I had to steel his nerve if I wanted to stay out of jail.

I stripped off Igor's clothes and lay above the covers, lights off, with Igor's gun in my hands. I slept easily because I knew what I was. I didn't lie, to myself like Igor did. I knew my nature, and I wasn't ashamed. I also knew what had to be done when the sun rose.

* * *

The next morning, my body woke itself up. I turned my head and saw the clock read
12
:
23
. The dim room was smelly. The smell had always been there, but I was too charged up on adrenaline the night before to notice. I was also aware of my body. Morrison had told me I'd been hit by a drunk driver. Laying in a hospital bed, it didn't feel so bad, but after a night of moving I felt different. My ribs and forearms were sore, but my hip was agony. I was sure that the car had hit me there. I stood and stumbled to the washroom. I grunted and felt my dick pay me back for my medical malpractice with the catheter. It took a few seconds for the blood flowing out of me to fade into pink urine. I looked away from the mess in the bowl to the tiny square mirror hanging over the toilet. A week's worth of growth had been added to the beard I had before the accident. My hair had been clipped so short two weeks ago that the small bit of growth was unnoticeable.