American Crow (10 page)

She laughed and kick-started the old bike
into life, then revved it hard, sending plumes of dark smoke into the air.

‘No one rides my fucking bike, Blake,
especially not an alpha-male like you, okay?’

We pulled out of the backyard into the
neighbourhood, the bracing Minnesotan air numbing my face instantly as we
navigated our way slowly along the snow-lined streets, then through heavy
traffic until hitting a poorer area not far from the hospital where I’d taken
Moses the previous night.

Eventually we bumped up on a pavement and
Jessica pointed a finger to a patchwork tower block nearby that looked as if it
was ready to be dynamited.

‘Perfect,’ I said, hoping the dealer’s
flat was on the first few floors.

‘Good luck with your search, Blake,’ she
said looking ahead, as if she knew I wouldn’t be back.

‘Sure thing.’

She revved the engine making it whine,
then dropped down off the curb onto the road and stopped for a second longer.

‘If you get stuck, you know where I live.
There’s always a free sofa...Be careful, huh?’

‘Thanks,’ I said mutedly as she drove
off, her purple-streaked hair flailing behind her.

As she melted into the distance, I
wondered if her pride had taken a hit because I hadn’t taken her up on her
invitation, then thought maybe I should have accepted it as I turned to face
the high-rise flats again, which now looked as if the only thing they would
offer up would be a cold metal blade in the guts, from their dark and shadowy
stairwells...

Chapter Eleven

‘the body’

I
walked towards the dilapidated tower block and clocked the
two black guys hovering around the back of a bashed-up Buick Regal outside. I
glanced at them casually again as I neared, checking if they were the sort to
give a stranger hassle, then decided that they were too busy doing whatever they
were doing to even care.

At the double doors I turned and eyed the
nearest one as he looked up from the trunk suddenly. He was wearing a red
woollen hat pulled tightly over some well-established dreadlocks and looked
street-hardened and mean, but not overtly threatening. I walked towards him
slowly.

‘Sorry to trouble you, man, but I’m
looking for a guy called, Spike. He supposed to live in this block. Do you know
him at all?’

The guy moved a tooth-pick around in his
mouth and eyed me suspiciously.

‘If he’s such a good friend, English guy,
why donts you know where he lives yourself?’

I met his gaze and offered a cheeky
smile.

‘Cus we’ve only just met.’

‘Sheeit...they’ve only just met. That’s
beautiful, man...’ he said, looking at the other guy for a reaction as he rose
from the trunk to join him.

They both broke into laughter in unison.
I scanned them each in turn and fought the irritation.

‘He said, that he’d tell me after the
second date,’ I replied eventually, clawing back my humour.

They laughed again and I knew that I’d
passed the test, shown them I hadn’t been intimidated. The other guy who was
bigger, with square shoulders and his jacket collars pulled up to his thick
side-burns took a step closer.

‘Some bad-assed honky bikers were asking
the same thing around here less than half hour ago, but youz don’t look like
you fit in with that crowd, man.’

‘Really?’

‘Reeal-ly,’ the one with the red hat
added with emphasis. ‘If I was you, mister, I’d make your social call another
time...’

‘Did they have some sort of horse motif
on the back of their jackets by any chance?’ I pushed.

‘You know those Mustang mother-fuckers?’
the hat guy said, returning to the trunk.

‘I went out on a bad date with a couple
of them recently, let’s put it like that.’

The laughter was quieter this time and
slower coming.

‘You better be packing, man, that’s all
I’m saying, because they looked like they meant business this time. But then
again so do we, and that’s why they don’t bother
us
. We just don’t walk
around playing mister big that’s all, like those jerks feel like they awta.’

‘Damn right,’ the larger guy added,
picking up a heavy hold-all from the ground, the contents of which I didn’t
want to inquire about.

The hat man turned and lifted his jacket
a little to reveal a semi-automatic wedged in his pants.

‘I would hit the road jack, unless you
got some hardware to back your honky ass up with. Seriously...’

‘I was wondering if I could borrow yours
actually,’ I said, flashing a half-smile, pushing my luck a little bit further.

He looked at me in semi-amusement, an
eyebrow raised.

‘Yeah, of course bro, and when you done
ya killing, make sure you give my piece to the law so I can do your time for
you. Sheeit…’

‘No harm in asking,’ I said whimsically,
turning to make my way in.

Just as I reached the main doors again,
the hat guy spoke for a final time.

‘Spike lives on the tenth floor. Flat
one-one-five I think. But I’m telling you, man, I would hang back til them Neanderthals
have done their thang if you value your balls. Word on the street is that the
guy owes them some green.’

‘I’ll be okay. Thanks…’

I raised a hand of acknowledgment and
made my way up, contemplating their advice as I eyed the stairs. From what I’d
seen of the bikers, they were just scare merchants, the sort that liked to wave
a gun rather than fire it when it came down to it. It was daylight too, and
they would have been clocked by a whole host of potential witnesses if they
were going to get heavy on someone.

I climbed the piss-smelling stairwell one
tread at a time, feeling apprehensive, my hot breath cutting through the air
before me. As I passed a broken window on the third floor I heard the two trunk
guys talking down below. 

‘The guy thinks he’s Charles Bronson or
some-ting...and the fool’s not even packing...’

I cracked a smile and worked my way up a
few more floors, glancing at the sky-scrapers in the distance as I got higher,
their shiny blue glass and granite thrusting their way into the heavens like
they were in some sort of snow-globe being constantly shaken. When I arrived at
the tenth floor I drew a laboured breath then edged my way along the wall
opposite and waited.

For a while I just listened to the noise
of the city, then the sounds of the block, sensing the situation. A baby cried
out in distress for a while. Then some guy started up closer, yelling at his
kids on the floor above, until they were provoked into responding with equal
venom. Then there was silence again. I peered around the wall and scanned the
corridor. No activity. All appeared quiet.

I stepped out and walked casually to flat
one-one-five and noticed the door ajar as I got closer. I debated my options
quickly. Was it worth walking in there unarmed in the hope of picking up a
half-decent lead only to get my head blown off? I wasn’t so sure…

I could always head back to the
activist’s house too. Spend the night there. And lean on someone else for
information. Or I could come back later when the bikers weren’t around, when it
was altogether safer. I vacillated between options then cursed under my breath
and nudged the door open. Fortune favoured the brave, didn’t it?

Inside the lights were on. The place felt
warm too. I looked down and clocked the unopened post on the mat and noticed
the majority were addressed to just one person. A Miss Sandra Raul…

The place didn’t look or have the vibe or
the smell of a drug den that was for sure, which made me think I’d been given
the wrong flat from the off by the trunk guys, or the dealer just wanted it to
look that way in case the cops came calling out of the blue.

I stepped in, my senses reaching out
before me for any ounce of danger hovering in the shadows. Inside, to my right,
was a postage-stamp kitchen which smelt of strong coffee and spices. The kettle
was still steaming.

I crept in and quickly found the cutlery
drawer, then eased a medium-sized carving knife out that felt nicely weighted.
I slid it into the back of my belt feeling better for carrying some sort of
weapon, then stepped back out as silently as I’d entered. I stared at the
narrow staircase to my left, then at the door opposite that was shut.

I cat-walked slowly forwards, went down
on one knee and peered through the keyhole. Inside was a gaudy-looking living
room with a cracked, white leather sofa, massive flat screen T.V fixed to the
wall, and a mantelpiece with all sort of tacky ornaments lined up along it.

Seeing the room empty, I depressed the
handle down gently and entered, gripping the knife tightly in case there were
any surprises the other side. I scanned the room quickly, then walked to its
end and peered through a doorway into a smaller, more softly lit room to my
right.

Inside the curtains were drawn. There was
some sort of treatment couch set up in the middle of the floor and a mug of
steaming coffee on a fold-out table next to it. Someone was either upstairs
having a siesta, or had recently gone out on a whim.

I studied the half-smoked cigarette in
the ashtray, clocking the lipstick on its filter tip then retreated back into
the lounge and stared at the urban sprawl through the window again, until the
sound of a toilet flushing broke the spell.

I looked up at the ceiling anxiously then
heard a door slam above. For a second I froze, unsure of what to do. Footsteps
walked confidently along the landing heading for the stairs. I had just seconds
before the occupant returned and clocked me in their fucking living room.
Shit...

Panicking, I ducked down behind the sofa
to my left, slid out the knife, then held it in front of my face in a crouching
position, hoping that the owner wasn’t about to start spring cleaning anytime
soon.

I counted the steps as they came down the
stairs. Then I heard a voice in the hall cursing someone for having left the
door open. It was the voice of a woman - a young woman. She sounded exotic. I
heard the door slam shut, the security bolt slide back into position, then the
person enter the living room and head towards the other room to supposedly
finish off their coffee and smoke.

I gave it a few seconds then tentatively
eased my head around the edge of the sofa and watched as she lingered in the
doorway opposite with her back to me. She was wearing tight jeans and a flimsy
turquoise blouse, and didn’t have much taste where jewellery was concerned,
taking into account the hooped earrings and the clunky gold bangles on her
wrists. I reckoned she was in her mid-to-late thirties and Hispanic in origin,
judging by her hair and her skin-colouring.

I looked on anxiously as she fiddled with
a radio for a while, then watched her pick up the cigarette and start to swing
her hips to some boisterous Latin tune that was playing. Then she disappeared.
I waited. All I could hear was guitars and trumpets now. Maybe she’d sat down
the other side and was finishing her coffee, or preparing some oils for a
massage?

Seizing the moment, I crawled out slowly,
stood up, then crept one foot at a time towards the door like some amateur
ninja, until the music stopped suddenly. I froze. A painful silence descended
on the flat. I cursed under my breath and raised the knife, expecting her to
come back out at any moment and go hysterical.

When she didn’t, I depressed the handle
an inch at a time until the lock mechanism released, then fanned the door
gently open, willing Sandra Raul or whoever she was, to remain inside her
damned treatment room until I’d disappeared.

Safely back in the hall, I closed the
lounge door, released the breath I’d been holding on to, then slid the bolt
back on the main door, turned the key and stepped back outside and stared out
across the city, feeling mightily relieved. It had been a close call in there.
Things could have quickly got out of control, got messy...Where in the hell was
the dealer’s flat anyway? Was I even in the right bloody block?

A body falling through the air made me
jump back instinctively.

‘What the...’

I looked over the balcony and eyed the
long-haired guy sprawled out in the car lot, a widening pool of claret seeping out
in all directions from his pulverized body, turning the crisp, white snow a
rich crimson. Someone had found what they were looking for obviously...

‘Fuck...’

Footsteps thundering along the corridor
above made me look up suddenly. The perpetrators of the crime had decided to
make a run for it...

I sprinted back to the stairwell and
counted three shadowy figures flash past through the reinforced glass. I let
them descend maybe a couple of floors then headed up to where they’d come from,
anxious to know who they’d just thrown off the balcony, desperate to know
whether Ethan and Olivia had been involved, and were hiding up there terrified
somewhere, or worse...

Halfway along I found a door that had
been kicked in. I pulled out the knife and eased my head around the busted
frame and looked in warily, concerned someone else might be in there, gun in
hand.

‘Hello…I’m just a neighbour, checking if
everyone’s okay...’

No answer. I took my chances and stepped into
the darkened hall, then into a gloomy living room that was empty save a couple
of threadbare sofas and an old hi-fi playing thrash metal on low.

I scanned the room. Sagging black
curtains were pulled over the main windows and the smell of skunk hung heavy in
the air. Reluctantly I headed upstairs, knife outstretched.

As I climbed, I saw that the doors to all
three rooms were wide open. That made life a little easier...The first was just
a bathroom, which I ignored. The next was a medium-sized bedroom that quite
simply stunk. I hovered in the doorway holding my breath, checking the room out
in the gloom. The blinds were drawn and there was a dirty mattress on the floor
with clothes scattered all around it. The room reeked of toxic sweat and
alcohol.

I stepped in and rifled through the
free-standing wardrobe then a side-table, and deduced that the room belonged to
the victim judging by the needles and other drug paraphernalia lying
everywhere. I placed my hand against the mattress. It was still warm. The guy
had been pulled out of bed half-asleep then thrown off the balcony it seemed.
Not a nice way to go.

I walked back out and along to the other
room. In comparison, the second space was immaculate, with all the clothes hung
up, save a pair of jeans thrown over the back of a chair by the bed, which
looked as if it hadn’t been slept in recently.