The Sapphire Express (16 page)

The lady didn’t say anything, and I tried again. “What’s your name, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Hand job is thirty bucks,” she said and pulled out a pack of Pall Malls from her purse and tapped both ends on her palm.

“Uh, OK, but what is your name?”

“Bonnie. And a blow job is fifty.”

“Uh, thank you, Bonnie, but I don’t think I’ll be needing those kinds of services today.”

“Are you a cop?”

“No.”

“A pervert?”

“No.”

“So what do you want, then? I don’t trust guys who drive a van without a good reason.”

“OK, what is a good reason, Bonnie?” I asked and smiled.

“Uh, I don’t know, like working in construction or something.”

“Ah, OK, I understand. And I apologize for my van. I know it’s creepy, but you have nothing to worry about. I promise you that.”

She didn’t say anything, but I noticed that her shoulders relaxed a little.

“Look, Bonnie, here’s two hundred dollars,” I said and handed her four fifty-dollar bills.

She took the money and put it in her purse quickly.

“I will give you more if you agree to listen to me for twenty minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

She looked at her purse guardedly and said, “OK, but park somewhere safe.”

“Fair enough,” I said and started looking for a good place to park the Econoline. Bonnie sat quietly in her seat and was probably still scared and a little confused, too. I didn’t blame her for that, though. It was, after all, true that she was soon going to experience something truly unprecedented.

After a couple of miles of leisurely driving, I parked the van in front of a busy diner and said to Bonnie, “Is this OK?”

“It’s fine, I guess.”

“OK, good. If you want to smoke or do something else that makes you relax, please feel free to do so.”

She looked at me curiously, pulled out a cigarette from the pack and lit it with a brown disposable lighter. Then she blew a thick cloud of smoke in my face and asked, “Do you want one, Mr. Creepy Van? If you don’t like sex, you should at least do something sinful with your money.”

“You are right, Bonnie. I can smoke one, I guess. Why not.”

She handed me a cigarette and the lighter and smiled like she was a little amused by me. I lit up the Pall Mall and took a long drag. It felt good, but nothing special. I had smoked a pack a day when I was young and stupid and had enjoyed the pleasures of that deadly habit for long enough. I didn’t mind having one with Bonnie, though, because she was smoking in the van anyway, and that was pretty much the exact same thing as me smoking a cigarette. I was just taking advantage of an unhealthy situation and flipping it around. That was my specialty, after all.

“Do you have kids, Bonnie?” I asked.

“No. Can’t have them. Never could. That’s why my ex kicked me out and kicked me. I guess I’m a useless woman. That’s what everybody keeps saying, anyhow, my mother and stupid brothers included. I guess God wanted me to be a whore, and he doesn’t want children to interrupt my precious work.”

I swallowed hard and said, “Look, I don’t know you, but I respect you very much. I really do. It’s a tough thing what you are doing out there every day. You might have gotten unlucky in life, but you are a good human being, Bonnie. You are much better than most people with good jobs, nice homes, and expensive cars. Much, much better. They haven’t run dirt through their hands for a long time, and all they want is higher walls and more guards and to get as far away from the real world as possible, even if they know deep inside that madness is closing in. I know how that works because I used to be one of those people.”

She shrugged and said, “Not too many people seem to agree with you. I have been pushed around and kicked so hard that I don’t even know why I’m still alive. Maybe I shouldn’t be. I don’t think hell can be much worse than this place. That’s where I’m going anyway. They don’t let sad old whores in heaven.”

“You were once a beautiful little girl, Bonnie,” I said in a trembling voice and tears started rolling down my cheeks. You were as pure as the morning snow, untainted, fragile, and full of wonder and magic. Why was that innocence exposed like that—exposed to evil without any protection and shelter? Why, goddammit?”

She looked through the windshield with sad eyes and said quietly, “I don’t know.”

“Bonnie, you are still beautiful and innocent. You have always been. None of this is your fault. You have done nothing wrong, you hear me?”

She looked at me and said, “I just don’t know why I am being punished so much. I must have done something really bad in my previous life. Maybe I deserve to be punished, and that’s why I am what I am.”

“You deserve love and kindness, Bonnie. That’s what you deserve.”

“Well, nobody has any love left for me, and nobody ever will. World is a cruel place for a dusty old whore like me. I am only wanted when a man is horny, and then, when he has been satisfied and his penis is limp and slimy, he hates me. He wants to hit me because I am dirty, even though it was him who made me dirty.”

“Bonnie. I am going to give you something. It is in a bag behind my seat.”

She looked at me with a face that was a full of surprise and concern and asked nervously, “What is it?”

“There is seventy thousand dollars in that bag. The money is yours to keep.”

She was quiet for a moment and said, “I don’t believe you. You are playing games with me. I know you are.”

“No, I’m not, Bonnie, trust me,” I said and pulled out the bag. Then I opened it and said, “Look, that’s your money. It’s all yours.”

She looked into the bag and was taken aback by the number of dead presidents staring at her.

“Bonnie, you can do whatever you want with that money—whatever you want. I am not going to tell you that you should buy a plane ticket to some utopia that doesn’t exist and leave your old life behind. I won’t insult your intelligence by telling you how to live your life or what you should do. I know nothing about you or your situation, and my advice would just be a selfish reflection of ideas that I personally think would maybe make sense. I just want you to take that money and use it any way you want. I hope that it will make you happy, at least for a little while. That’s all I can ask for.”

“I don’t know what to say,” she said quietly and lit another cigarette. “I don’t believe this.”

“Believe it, Bonnie. No one is going to take that money away from you. I will now drive you to your home, and you can leave the bag there. I will then drive you back to Randall’s because I don’t want your friends to think that something bad happened to you on my watch, OK?”

“OK,” she said quietly and gave me her address.

We dropped the bag at Bonnie’s place, and I drove her back to the truck stop. I kissed her hand gently, and she stepped out of the van and said, “You are an angel, Mr. Creepy Van. You really are, and I want you to know that I am going to give some of that money to Lisa’s kids.”

“Who is Lisa?”

“She was a friend of mine. She was murdered a few months ago. She had two young kids.”

“OK, Bonnie, sounds good, but don’t tell anyone about the money—anyone. You hear me?”

“Don’t worry, Mister. My mama didn’t raise a moron,” she said and smiled a proud smile. Then she closed the door and raised her thumb. I raised mine, and the Econoline started rolling toward new adventures.

9

Don’t Mess with Africa

When the menacing night fell the next evening, I decided to dedicate the dark hours to heavy drinking and mild socializing. I was a selective introvert, and it was only fair to let the extrovert out of his isolated prison for one night. I didn’t know why, but I wanted to see other people, and that was something that concerned me greatly. I wasn’t sure if my craving for humanity was a sign of weakness or something more serious. Maybe I was just acting like a human being, who knows, but I didn’t like the feeling one bit.

I drank four cold beers and got ready for the party while whistling happy songs and some stupid, made-up tunes in my bathroom. I danced a little in front of the mirror, took a shot of Russian vodka, and jumped into my best jeans like a drunken panther. Then I put the Cheetah in my pocket and called a taxi. Destination: Johnny D’s World of Fine Liquors.

The driver was nice, and I gave him a ten-dollar tip and walked through the bar doors with self-confidence and rare optimism twirling in my masculine stride. I glanced around the smoky room and said a cheery hello to the other loyal customers who were licking their beers and drinks like they were made with mother cat’s milk. Then I sat down on my favorite barstool and started destroying godfathers like they were going out of style. It was going to be a wonderful night out. I was absolutely sure of that.

Ramses served me everything I asked for without any unnecessary questions, and I thought that he was the best bartender in the world. After all, he had introduced me to the mighty godfather and the wondrously delicious Mr. Bratwurst. “Great man that Ramses is. Truly a wonderful man. Worthy of a spot in the Valley of the Kings, no doubt about that. No doubt at all,” I said to myself and took an enormous sip of the godfather.

Around midnight, I overheard a big bald guy in a brown Carhartt jacket bragging about how he had slept with a prostitute in Vegas but had refused to pay her because he hadn’t been happy with the service. He said that her vagina had been too loose.

I waited until the guy went to the bathroom and followed him there. Then I sneaked behind his back and let the Cheetah bite him hard in the nuts. The cheap bastard fell on the tile like someone had dropped a grand piano on his head, and he took a twenty-minute beauty nap. Then he staggered out of the bathroom, holding his head with both hands and swearing like a sailor. His friends were laughing at him like a pack of spiteful hyenas and telling him to hold his goddamn liquor. The big man said that something had bitten him in the bathroom, and his friends started laughing even harder. Then the fat bastard downed four shots of tequila in less than a minute and started smiling like an idiot. I shook my head and ordered a bratwurst and two godfathers.

The second highlight of the night happened at 1:30 a.m. when a drunken southern belle in dirty denim cutoff shorts picked up a chair and started dancing with it. She pretended to be a figure skater, and the sloshed wonder woman moved around the bar gracefully and full of imaginary poise like she was a top athlete competing in the Winter Olympics exclusively for alcoholics and drug addicts. Her program included some wonderful lifts, throw jumps, a flying spin, and even a magnificent death spiral, but nothing was more amazing than the grand finale. She lifted the chair high up in the air like it was her skating partner and started shaking her head violently and howling like a deranged wolf that had eaten a bagful of Jimsonweed. The gracious lady was so concentrated on her brilliant performance that she didn’t notice that there was an old industrial fan spinning wildly above her head. Even when the powerful fan ripped the chair off her weak hands and smashed it into her boyfriend’s terrified face, she didn’t stop howling. She just kept dancing the night away, but when her boyfriend started howling even louder than her and running around the bar with a profusely bleeding face, she finally opened her eyes and realized that her man was hurt. The morbid figure skater began chasing the fallen hero like a clingy puppy and yelling, “Who hit you, Bobby? Who hit you!” but after the second victory lap, she slipped and fell on a pool of vomit that was a donated to the bar by a young, neurotic chemistry student who couldn’t look at blood without getting sick. I shook my head and ordered another drink. It was just another night at Johnny D’s.

The rest of the evening was fairly uneventful—by Johnny D’s perverted standards—and the night flew by a little too quickly. It was soon closing time, and Ramses came to me with his disgusting peanuts and asked, “Are you about done here, sir?”

I looked at him and said, “I don’t want any damn peanuts, man.”

He sighed paternally and gave me a glass of ice water and a coffee that looked like a cup of black poison. Then he said, “You need to stop drinking, man.”

“Why?”

“Because I have another job for you. Come back here in the morning around nine, and we’ll talk, OK?”

“Yeah, whatever,” I said reluctantly, and Ramses called me a taxi. The fun-filled night was over.

The next day, I arrived at Johnny D’s around 10:00 a.m. with a slight hangover, and my headache confirmed that I wasn’t an immortal being, after all. Ramses locked the front door and handed me a glass full of murky liquid that looked absolutely revolting.

“What is this crap?” I asked without tasting it.

“It’s rassol. It cures hangover. A Russian secret.”

“What’s in it?”

“Sauerkraut juice. It’s rich in potassium and magnesium. Good stuff, trust me.”

“Jesus Christ,” I said and drank the whole thing without further resistance.

Ramses looked at me pensively and asked, “So, what do you think?”

“Well, it’s not bad. I trust the Russians when it comes to drinking. They don’t smile or laugh. They just drink.”

“Yeah, well, I have something else for you.”

“Let me guess, you want me to dial M for murder?”

“Yes.”

“Nice,” I said and exhaled deeply.

“Well, this is something that will make you rich. It’s double the money you got last time.”

“I don’t care about the money, man. Just give me the details, and I might think about it. My hangover has tied half my brain behind my back, so I can’t promise much.”

“OK, listen carefully, then. The target is a guy who owns a big waste management company in Delaware. It is one of the most profitable medium-sized companies in the country. The guy is loaded.”

“Is that a crime?”

“No, but there is a catch. He is shipping some of his most hazardous waste to Africa and dumping it into the ocean. We are talking about some nasty stuff here: mercury, arsenic, acids, and whatnot. Some tree huggers don’t really like what he is doing, and they have come up with some serious money to get rid of the fucker. They believe that it is their moral obligation to protect the planet from a common enemy or some shit. Well, anyway, I need you to make the tree huggers’ dreams come true.”

“That is an unfair request, Ramses, and you know it,” I said with a voice of a man who knew that he was being taken advantage of. “I mean, Jesus, you are like a violent father who asks his son to take care of him when his liver finally gives out. I am not killing a man for that shit, sorry, but no. Tell your client to call the cops or the goddamn UN; I don’t give a shit.”

Ramses looked at me nervously and said, “The huggers say that they have tried that already, but nobody cares. It’s Africa, man. The bastard has bribed half the continent.”

“The answer is still no.”

“Well, I hear you, and I think you are right. However, there is more to this story, much more.”

“I am listening, Ramses. And you can tell me the whole fucking thing. I have no patience for goddamn cliffhangers, OK?”

“OK, well, this guy has a hobby. He likes to rape little African girls on his free time. He gets away with it because the people are desperate, and he pays a ton of money for that perverted pleasure.”

I looked at Ramses sternly and asked, “Is this true? Or are you just saying this because you want the tree huggers to get what they want, so you can get want
you
want?”

The dirty man looked straight into my eyes and said seriously, “Look, man, this is the God’s honest truth. I would never lie to you. I am scared shitless of you, and I know what would happen if I tried to play games with you, OK? I have made one bad mistake already, and I am not about to make another one. I actually enjoy being alive, even if you wouldn’t believe that by just looking at me.”

I looked at him stone-faced and said, “Give me the address, Ramses. I will also need more details this time because it sounds like this guy won’t be home alone much. He will have housekeepers, gardeners, and whatnot on his property—maybe even two or three kids and a desperate housewife with a coke habit. Who knows, the bastard might even have a private security detail protecting his toxic ass.”

Ramses pulled out a piece of paper with an address written on it with red ink and placed it on the counter.

I memorized the address quickly without touching the paper, and I said, “Burn it.”

The paper was soon smoldering in a dirty ashtray, and Ramses said, “Here is his picture. The name is Mark Covington Jr. No wife or kids. But you are right about one thing; he employs some security and maintenance people. However, the address I gave you is to a place where he spends most of his spare time. It’s a secluded vacation home by the Atlantic, and the property is neither gated nor guarded. There is no staff there because I think that the fucker is doing something shady in that house. You catch him there and you are golden. No one will bother you, I swear to God.”

“And why don’t the tree huggers take him out themselves?”

“You know, they are nice, gentle people. What can I say?”

I sighed deeply and said, “OK, what the hell.”

“So you will do it?” Ramses asked with the enthusiasm of an ADHD teenager who had convinced his busy father to buy him a 400-horsepower muscle car.

“Yes.”

“And you really don’t need any additional information about the target?”

“No.”

“OK, great, just great,” he said and tried to clumsily conceal his excitement under a cool demeanor.

“OK, Ramses. I will leave now, but you need to bring me four bratwursts and some of that Bavarian mustard, right now, because I might still change my mind.”

“Absolutely, of course,” he said and ran to the kitchen like someone had lit his ass on fire.

In about four minutes, I was standing outside Johnny D’s with a bag of wonderful European goodies in a white plastic bag. The wheels of murder had been set in motion, once again, and there was no power in the world that could stop me. The garbageman was a dead man walking.

I drove home and lay down on the young kings, thinking about my new mission and wondering how many people were contemplating a homicide at that very moment. It was a little unnerving to realize that the garbageman had no idea that while he was enjoying his carefree lunch on his patio, some stranger was finalizing a wicked plan to put him in an oblong box. I figured that none of us could ever be sure that there wasn’t a beast of a man lying in his bed somewhere there and thinking about paying us a deadly visit.

I sincerely hoped that I would survive my mission because I knew that self-made millionaires were tough sons of bitches, and they never capitulated without a fight. Giving up simply wasn’t in their DNA, and they could never be underestimated, no matter how big or small they were. I was, however, fairly confident that a new oblong box would soon get a brand-new occupant, and that I was going to replicate the success I had experienced with the consultant. I was a calculating and intelligent enemy, after all, and I had all the necessary tools at my disposal to be victorious and bring some hard justice to the ugly world where evil so often treaded on the weak with impunity.

I perfected my plan during the following days and visited Home Depot a couple of times. I prepared the Econoline carefully and built a new oblong box for the garbageman and made sure that complacency didn’t step in and try to mess with my diligence. I had been successful once, but that didn’t mean that humility and attention to every single detail had lost any of their importance.

The box turned out even better than the first one, and I named it Larry Number 2 after my cousin Larry’s son, Larry. He didn’t call his son Larry Number 2, but I added the number because I thought that it was just so goddamn confusing when the son and his father had the same name. I sometimes wondered why my cousin hadn’t even bothered to add the word “junior” after the name, but I figured that maybe it would have ruined the beautiful simplicity of the name Larry.

Regardless of the name, the box was the most important item on my list, and I took a deep breath when I closed the lid and lifted the box into the Econoline. Then I took a quick urine break and started cleaning my guns and knives and made sure that the Cheetah was ready to take another bite of wicked flesh. After that was done, I studied the map carefully and memorized the route to the target’s house. Everything needed to be absolutely perfect because I had a strange feeling that the new mission was going to be much more dangerous than the previous one. Boy, was I right about that.

The preparations went smoothly, and I found no flaws in any of my equipment. The Sig Sauer was ready to go, and the machete and the field skinner were sharper than the Grim Reaper’s scythe. The only thing left to do was to maneuver my mind into the exact right place and get ready to take a man’s life again. The mental game was, after all, much more important than the guns and knives because only a strong-minded master could unleash their deadly force.