Darwin's Nightmare (15 page)

“I let you off. Never forget that. You didn't earn, justify, prove, or bribe anything from me. I decided your fate. You breathe because I had a single thought that you might be useful.”

I took in the rant and thought it over. What he said wasn't false. The only missing part would have been the expense of killing me. It would have been hard, costly, and pointless. “The point is I'm out,” I said between sips of tea.

“Fuck, you really are stupid, aren't you. You are what I say you are, and no one is going to hire you until I decide I'm done with you. Not even those bilingual criminals. Oh, don't look surprised, I know all about the little introduction you had. It's good you came home because I
was ready to make sure no one would be looking to give you work.”

I took another sip of tea. The man across the table controlled my immediate future; he could make things easy or very, very hard. I decided to hear him out.

“What's on the table, Paolo?” I asked.

He smiled then. It was the smile a cat would have on its face when the mouse finally gave up and stopped running. I hated that look and I promised myself I would remember it, and someday pay it back.

“We on a first-name basis all of a sudden? You and me equals now? What part of the city is yours? ‘Cause I own fucking everything. Now shut up and listen. You're gonna work for me like before, but this time no one will know you fucking exist.”

I had to admit I liked how this was going. It already sounded natural to me.

Paolo went on, “A man like me is always surrounded by people who are looking to take information and put it to use. Many people in my own organization would take me down if they could. I need someone no one would trust. Someone with no allegiances who will work jobs I set up. You'll get things for me, private things, on people who work for and against me, and you'll deal only through Julian. That way I stay on top, and you stay employed. And if you get an idea to rip me off, to take from me? Well, I got an army who would love to know what really happened to Tommy.”

“I'm not going to become a contract killer for you.”

“I want information only. I don't need you to kill anyone.”

“How much does it pay?”

“More.”

Paolo didn't wait for me to say yes. He stood up.
“Thanks for breakfast,
figlio.
Julian will be in touch.” And he walked out.

I paid for breakfast.
What the hell?
I figured.
I have a job. I can afford it.

I had a cramped timetable for getting back what I had already stolen. The Russian demand of twenty-four hours didn't give me enough time for finesse. I had no idea who Paolo Donati would contact to hack some encrypted disks. If I started asking around it would take longer than a day to find out, and word of it would leak up, leaving me blocked out or dead. My only option was to go at the problem head-on. I had to find someone in the know and grind what I needed out of them. I also had to get the information in a way that wouldn't leave any traces back to me. It would not be in my best interest to make things right with the Russians only to have more problems with the Italians. Paolo wanted me dead. I didn't know why he chose now to pay me back, but his intentions were clear. I had to weather the storm with the Russians so I could settle up with Paolo later.

I really only had one name to choose from — Julian. Julian was Paolo's second; he knew where all the bodies were buried. Julian would know who the disks were sent
to and why. He wouldn't appreciate being squeezed, so I would have to make it hard on him. If I did it right, he would keep his mouth shut. If Paolo found out that Julian gave up information to me, he'd have the life expectancy of milk in the sun. Julian would have to keep quiet about what I did and wait for a time to deal with me privately.

After the business with Steve and Sandra, I had decided to find out where all of the major players lived. I knew where Julian lived, but there were few times when he was alone and unaccounted for. He worked whatever hours Paolo worked, and Paolo was a workaholic. The hours Julian spent at home in his condo were sporadic. Julian's condo also offered a high degree of security: there were guards in the building, in addition to whatever measures of his own he took to secure his home. I'd have to hit him between point A and point B. Point A was the restaurant; point B was his condo. I looked at my watch. It was 9:30 p.m. I still had time to do what needed to be done.

I took a cab from outside the office to the local hockey rink, which was always busy at night with games of shinny going on into the early morning. I stole an old Ford pickup with a large empty bed and headed away from the city to a garden centre on a back road in a quiet neighbouring town. It was still warm enough that a lot of the supplies were kept outdoors. I picked the padlock on the gate out front, drove in, and parked the truck beside a pile of garden stones. I piled as many of the huge garden stones as I could into the bed of the truck. Each stone pushed the shocks farther and farther down on the wheels. With the truck full, I drove out of the lot and onto the shoulder of the road. In the glow of the rear lights of the truck, I relocked the gate. I got back behind the wheel and headed back into the city. The truck lurched like a drunk, but when the odometer hit fifty the pickup was as solid as a sledgehammer.

I drove to the restaurant and parked in a lot on the corner; the dashboard clock read 11:23. I could see Julian's car parked out front. It was a Cadillac sedan, black, tinted, powerful, and fast. There was another vehicle parked out front: the black Escalade that transported Paolo everywhere he went. The fact that there were two cars in front of the restaurant told me Julian would be driving himself home eventually.

I spent the next two hours waiting in the silent truck staring at the two vehicles in front of the restaurant. At 1:13 there was finally movement. The lights went out in the windows, and the doors opened. Two men in suits came out first; they scanned the area before nodding towards the door. Three men left the restaurant and joined the two; among them were Paolo and Julian. Paolo got into the back of the
SUV
with another man, and the two men in suits got in front. Julian waited alone in the street and watched the car pull away. He stood in the street for a full minute, waiting for something I couldn't see, then he walked to the Cadillac and shoved his body in. The car rocked from the impact of his huge body against the frame. I started the pickup and drove around the block.

The truck lurched forward, building speed slowly. After a minute, I was moving above the speed limit. I hung a left on a one-way street and used the road to connect to the street Julian would be taking. The truck slid a little as I rounded the corners, and there was a hard jolt when I pressed the gas pedal down to accelerate again. Pedal to the floor, I moved up the road looking for the black Cadillac. As if the heavens were looking down on me, I saw the car, alone, stopped at a light two hundred metres ahead.

As I approached the intersection I craned my neck to check the cross streets, saw no one coming. I yanked the wheel left and then hard to the right and swerved the
weighted truck through the intersection like a right hook into the driver's side of Julian's car. I pulled my hands up to my face and shielded my head as the two cars collided. The impact shot through my body, and I felt ribs strain under the pressure of the seat belt. The frame of the old truck held, and I woke up after what felt like a long blink to find my legs still able to move, and the engine still clucking.

I pulled the emergency brake and kicked the dented side door open. I freed the gun from behind my back and held it with two hands as I approached the window of the Cadillac and looked inside. The window was shattered and the air bag had deployed, but no Julian. I bent to look deeper in the car and saw his body half out the passenger-side window. The direction of the impact and lack of seat belt had sent him flying sideways. The side impact beams kept Julian inside and the shape of the car somewhat recognizable, but the sheer force of the impact must have rocked Julian hard. Quickly I moved to the opposite side of the Cadillac. Julian's head and shoulders were out the passenger side window; he was semi-conscious and no good to me. He mumbled something in Italian through his bloody face when his glazed eyes saw me. I swore at him under my breath for not buckling up, then put him all the way out with the butt of the Glock. Killing Julian would let everyone know that the accident wasn't just a simple hit and run, and it wouldn't take long for Paolo to tie the hit on Julian to the disks; they would be gone forever after that. There were no cars nearby, but a set of lights approached in the distance. I reached in through the window and did a quick frisk. I pocketed Julian's wallet and a cell phone, and went back to the truck. I pulled myself in behind the wheel, leaving the broken door open. I released the emergency brake and put the truck in reverse. The engine chugged, but the truck made a choppy
lurch back, slamming the broken side door into place. I moved away from the Cadillac and drove straight down the street. After a minute, I passed a car; the driver's stare at the wrecked front end of the truck was illuminated for me in the streetlights. I pulled a right as soon as I could and got off the main road. I found a parking lot a hundred metres from the road behind a closed Pizza Pizza, shut off the truck, and used my sleeve to wipe down the interior. I left the truck there and found a cab two blocks away. Police cars, sirens blaring and lights flashing, passed the cab on their way to the mess I left behind.

I changed cabs a few times to make sure no one was following me and got back to the office at 2:17 a.m. I put my gun, Julian's wallet, and the phones I took from Igor and Julian on the desk, then looked for whatever food I had on hand. I found some mixed nuts and a Coke. I ate and drank with relish before I even considered the phones. When I finished the food, I looked at Julian's phone. It was a slim model — modern and new. I pulled up the call history and clicked through until I found the date of the airport robbery. I checked the call log and saw that Julian had called a cell number minutes after I handed him the bag.

I took a deep breath and called the number. After six rings I got a sleepy, “Hello?”

“You done with the disks yet?” I asked in a gruff voice.

“What the fuck? Who is this?”

I asked again, and after another foul response I hung up. I went back to the call log and found the next number Julian had called that day. I tried the second number and got a much better response.

“Julian? I told you it'd take at least a week. Why are you calling me now?” There was a pause, then a hushed whine: “Aw, jeez, ya woke up Ma, now she's gonna be pissed.”

I worked hard to make my voice deeper like Julian's
and I tried to talk like him. “Listen, I got another disk with some things the boss said would help. Codes he said you'd need. Important information. But it can't be dropped off. These shits we took it from are looking hard at us. I need to hand it off to you. You need to meet me this morning. Now.”

The whiny whisper took on a scared tone. “Look, Julian,” said the Voice, “I don't mean no disrespect, but I can't get involved with that. I promised Ma I was clean now. Aw, crap. Hold on.” His words were muffled under a cupped hand as he told his mother that the call was a wrong number and he was just hanging up.

When the Voice came back I decided to press my luck. “Fine,” I said. “I got an idea that will work out. Something no one will expect. No one will see this coming. I'll FedEx the disk to you. Give me your address.”

There was a pause. “Julian? You know where I live.”

There was a hint of question in the words, so I turned up the volume. “Who the fuck are you? You say no to me and I let it slide. I don't even press you. I decide to help you out ‘cause I feel bad for your ma, and you start questioning me? You gotta make a choice, A or B, it's up to you. You can either worry about your mother or yourself, because in a few seconds I'm gonna find someone else to do your job, and then I won't care so much about you . . . or your mother.”

“Julian . . . I . . . Julian, I'm sorry I —”

“Shut the fuck up. Stay quiet. Don't say anything to me. Just listen. I'm not the fucking post office. I can't send shit without all of the information that they want on the label. I want the address, the postal code, everything. Now!”

It all came out as soon as I finished yelling. Once the Voice stopped pleading and gave me what I asked for, I
was moving. I picked up Julian's wallet and Igor's cell phone off my desk and opened the closet. I pulled a black windbreaker over my untucked shirt and pocketed a black watch cap. I removed the panel in the back of the closet and put in the wallet and cell phones. I took the sawed-off shotgun out for the second time, sliding it under my arm. Then I went back to my desk and used a Swiss Army knife to cut two holes into the material of the watch cap. I pulled it on and checked my vision through the holes. After a little adjusting and finger tearing, I had clear vision through the hat. I rolled the cap and put it in my back pocket. I stowed the Glock behind my back and flattened the back of the jacket over the holster.

My shoulders were starting to knot from the collision. I was tired and wanted nothing more than to eat then sleep for a month. But I couldn't stop, I couldn't slow down. If I lost momentum, I would lose the element of surprise — the only edge I had. I did two minutes' worth of stretching to loosen my shoulders and back. The final stretch was to get a bottle of Advil. I put four of the sweet tablets into my mouth and chewed them as I walked out of the office.

In the car, I drove just above the speed limit. I didn't want to draw any cop's attention. I was just another poor schlub off a late shift trying to get home a little quicker. The address the Voice gave me was on the other side of town. I pushed my way through the sparse traffic towards the Voice and his mother wishing I could slow down, but knowing I couldn't. The call put the Voice on edge, and I had to get there before the whimpering fear I yelled into him turned into afterthoughts that would question the whole phone call. I found the building and circled it twice, looking for heads illuminated in cars by my headlights. Those types of heads are like alligator eyes above the water, watching in dark silence for anything to come too close. I
saw no one watching, and no one waiting, so I parked around the side of the building and got out. I opened the trunk and hid from the streetlight behind the open lid. From under a blanket, I retrieved the sawed-off shotgun and slid it up the side of my windbreaker so I could hold it tight to my body with the side of my bicep. I closed the trunk and walked around to the front of the high-rise. My walk was odd; the bulges from the watch cap and pistol clashed with the awkward gait caused by holding a shotgun to my body using my elbow.