Darwin's Nightmare (8 page)

“Tommy please . . . I . . . I need a hospital.”

Tommy slapped his wife with a closed fist. She was trying to make him show that he cared, to make him show weakness. Tommy would never show weakness in front of us — it wasn't in him. Even with his back against the wall, he would never let anyone see under the hard skin he wore like armour. He hit her again and again until his son tried to intervene. Tommy didn't stop; his fists found the boy too. Both mother and son gave up and accepted their lumps. Tommy hit them both until he was breathing in heavy gasps. He turned to look at us once again and seemed to regain his composure. It was no wonder he was a made man and not just some strong-arm; he was trying to control the situation. He was trying to pass the events off like something that could never hurt him. Tommy was trying to show us that he was unafraid, and that it was us who should have been terrified regardless of the gun we held. He looked at us in disbelief, a look that told us we had made the biggest mistake of our lives. His look told us we should run and hide to avoid the fury of this self-proclaimed mob god. Tommy could have pulled it off too if we weren't who we were. He had no idea that there were others just as ruthless as he was. Other people who were capable of handling their own affairs instead of just passing them off to the many arms of the underworld.

Steve sighed and shot Tommy in the shoulder. The bullet hit him high on the right side of his body and spun him around, and down onto all fours. When he tried to get up, Steve kicked him hard in the ribs. Tommy flopped to his side, propelled by the foot and the crunching sound of
his ribs. Steve stepped on the bullet wound and over the screams asked a third time.

“Is she back alone?”

“Yah, she's back alone. She's alone. Okay?”

Steve looked to me and said, “Check.”

I went over to him, took the phone from his pocket, hit redial, and waited. When Sandra answered, I had her check outside for cars and men. She told me the streets were empty. I told her to lock up and stay put, then I told Steve everything was good. He nodded and looked around the room. The fire in him seemed to slowly drain. He looked at me, and there was less anger and violence in his eyes.

“Is there any way out of this?”

Steve knew the mob wouldn't forget, and that they would keep coming until they were satisfied. Satisfaction would most likely involve the death of Steve, Sandra, and probably me. I had been working for Paolo Donati almost exclusively for a few years, and he owed me some favours. Unfortunately, favours from a mob boss are like Grandma's china — nice to have, but you never thought of actually using it.

“I'll do what I can.”

The gun sounded three more times, and we were on our way out. I had Steve wipe everything he had touched before we closed the door. In the lobby, the doorman was still on the floor and the streets were still clear. I wasn't worried about the gunshots. I figured the neighbours knew who Talarese was and what he was into. That made them the type of people who would turn up the television to drown out gunshots rather than call nine-one-one.

I drove Steve back to the bar and let him out in front of the entrance. He rode back without saying a word and got out the same way. He began to walk away, but stopped and turned to stare at me. He came back to the car and sat
in the seat beside me again. He looked like hell; his shirt was bloodstained, and his pants were dirty.

“I don't know why,” he said, looking at me.

I stared out the windshield and thought about why. Why had I put it all on the line for a bartender and his wife? I wasn't one of the good guys. I was on the other side. Steve came to see me because he knew I would know who took his wife. But even though I knew the men who kidnapped Sandra, I never considered myself like them. There was a line separating what I was from what they were. I was independent; I chose the jobs I wanted to work. It just so happened that one person in particular used me for my skills more than others. Paolo recognized my usefulness early on and he used me for jobs that required the ignorance and secrecy that only an outsider could provide. I worked on the fringe and I made Paolo aware of where everyone stood, be they gangs, other organized outfits, even cops. Being an outsider, I couldn't use information I found to hurt Paolo: no one would talk to me or believe what I said. There were also the hoods he employed who would have been happy to kill me for no other reason than to relieve their boredom. I lived the life I was taught. I was off the grid to everyone. No one knew where I lived; I had no accounts or property in my name. I hardly had a name — just the one word I used for an identity. I was a ghost in the machine. No one saw me coming and no one traced me back to anyone.

I stared out the window, thinking of the why, unable to find an answer. “Go see her,” was all I said.

Steve nodded and grunted something as he got out of the car again. Sandra opened the door as he walked away from me and ran outside to him. They hugged in the street and cried together, two people who refused to follow the rules. I sat for a time watching the two forms joined
together with arms and lips. I smiled and found myself thinking of my parents. All the years I had lived with my uncle had never shown me what they were. I learned what they did, but I never knew who they were. No matter how hard I tried to climb into their world, they were unknown. I could only hold on to their memories like the edges of dreams. I had parts and images, but no real recollection of them. I thought of them as I watched Steve and Sandra in the rain. I saw two people who fought the system to make their own life. Two people who went outside the rules to protect their small family. In that moment I felt closer to my parents, closer to two people who fought to give me a life I had no right to have as the son of bandits. Steve and Sandra refused to give in to the mob, refused to give in to their filthy pressure. They wanted a life on their terms, and I helped them get that — maybe only for a short time longer.

I pulled away from the curb and drove to a coffee shop around the corner. I found a spot behind it and parked, then sat in the car watching the streetlights fade into large blotches in the growing fog on the windshield. I got myself involved in a mess, and getting out was not going to be easy. I needed to meet with the boss before word got out — or worse, a contract.

I got out of the car into the glow of the streetlight and walked to the coffee shop to the beat of the gravel under my shoes. I used the storefront windows to check out everyone in the shop before making a move to enter. No one looked out at me. No one even looked in the direction of the doors. I moved through the pair of doors separating outside from inside and ordered a tea at the counter. I sat at a table for two against the wall and watched everything that was going on in the restaurant. The counter had stools lined up for solitary eaters at a red scarred countertop. Sugar, napkins, and ketchup were the only decorations in
the restaurant. Four men sat in the red swivel stools at the counter and ate in silence. One waitress served them in her T-shirt and apron. She didn't move fast and she didn't move slow; she did her job with quiet efficiency amid the hum of the air conditioner and the clanging that sporadically erupted from the kitchen behind her.

The waitress came out from behind the counter and brought me my tea. After she had left me the water, a mug, and a metal container full of milk, I thought over the events of the day. I had witnessed the deaths of seven people who were connected in their own right. I hadn't killed anyone, but I hadn't stopped the killing either, so I was as guilty as Steve. If I didn't try to square this away, Steve and Sandra would be dead by tomorrow, and I would follow soon after. Steve wouldn't give me up, but they would make it hard on Sandra and she would — in the end. I had to try to mop this up before it spilled over into the streets.

I drank my tea slowly and turned a quarter in my hand. The only way it was going to work was if I had a sit-down with the boss himself to give an explanation. Tommy had kidnapped and threatened to mutilate Steve's wife for overdue rent. He went outside the natural order of things, and it had cost him. If someone doesn't pay up you beat them, or burn their place down. People don't pay when they're dead. Dead bodies also have the bad habit of attracting cops; no one wants cops. I had to make Paolo see it this way because the only other way to see it was two men decided they wanted to die in the worst possible way, so they picked a fight with a made man and his family. I finished the tea and left a few bucks on the table, then walked to the phone and dialled.

“Yeah?”

“It's Wilson. I need a meeting with the man.”

“I'm sorry, sir, I think you have the wrong —”

“I'm coming now and I'll wait. Pass on a message that I have something important to speak to him about.”

“You can't —”

I hung up the phone before the lackey could finish and made my way to the counter. I sat among the silent men and had another tea and a muffin to make myself busy for ten more minutes.

I finished eating, paid up, and drove. I got out of the car four blocks from the restaurant and walked the rest of the way. I wanted everyone to see me coming.

There were always four men out front discussing sports, food, or the women who walked by. The group changed members every couple of hours, but their purpose never changed. They were the first level of security, and if they didn't like the look of you, you weren't going anywhere. I crossed the street directly across from the front entrance and watched as the group of four men seamlessly shifted to block my way. By the time I stepped up onto the curb, I was on a collision course with the group as though that was my intention all along. The one to my left spoke as the others closed in around me.

“You got balls, Wilson, showing up like you call the shots.”

I didn't answer because it was meant as a statement, not a challenge. One of the men to my right, shielded from view by his partners, began frisking me. It was a waste of time, I was clean; I left the gun in my car. When the frisk ended I was still in the middle. No one moved.

“I'm going in now, anything stupid and you're going to get hurt first,” I said to the one who had spoken. He stared at me, and I let my face pull into a grin. It wasn't productive to do this, but I always hated being frisked. Even more, I hated being stalled by four idiots in a lame attempt at intimidation once I had been found to be
unarmed. I brushed past the man to my left, making sure to edge him hard. I never turned back, not even when the four began hurling insults at me.

Inside the door it was immediately dimmer. On my right was a young woman behind a mahogany counter — another layer of security. The coat-check girl checked over whoever came in and called ahead with any problems.

“Check your coat, sir?”

“Maybe later,” I said as I walked past the coat-check girl to a set of thick glass doors that led to the dining room.

“Everyone checks their coats, sir, house rules.” Her voice had a hard edge to it; the word “sir” sounded as though it meant “you dumb asshole.” I turned to the voice with my hand on one of the cold glass doors. She was short, maybe five feet, with long dark hair and eyes that matched. She was cute, not pretty, and that fact probably gave her a lot of attitude under her exterior. Knowing she would never be considered beautiful hardened her. She wasn't really cute at that moment because she was doing her best to give me a hard stare.

“I know what everyone does, and I don't care.” The look in my eyes cut through her stare and for a split second she was scared. Her left hand moved under the counter — just an inch.

“If you're thinking of moving that left hand a little more, you should think of one thing first,” I said.

She paused, wondering what I knew that she didn't. “What's that?” Her voice had no edge now, just a hesitant fear.

“I'll be through the door before you can get your hand above the counter.” I never knew what she did once the door closed behind me.

The lights in the dining room were dim; they made the red walls a dark maroon. There were twenty tables below
the five stairs in front of me. Past the tables was a hallway; on either side of the hall were booths. I walked down the stairs past the tables, each of which had a long tablecloth and four overturned chairs on top. Once I made my way past the tables, two men from booths on opposite sides of the mouth of the hall stood and approached me.

“Stay where you are.”

I stood my ground. I could see that the two men in front of me had guns in shoulder holsters under their suit jackets. On top of that, the bodyguards were young and in shape. These two were first-rate newbies, immature and eager, like all before them. They must have had long and bloody résumés already, to be doing personal security for the boss.

“Turn around. Arms straight out.”

I did as I was told and stared at the wall. The frisk was by the numbers, and more thorough than outside because this frisk was less about weapons and more about a wire. As by-the-books as it was, it was a slow job, something that didn't sit right with me. Too much time was spent on my upper body and arms. These guys were young, but they should have been good because the position they were in demanded skill. I kept thinking they should have been better than this. As a right hand moved slowly down my left leg, I realized what was happening, and my world exploded.

One moment I was standing, thinking only of the meeting and the frisking; the next I was on the floor forcing myself to breath as I tried to focus and forget that one of my kidneys just exploded. I lay sprawling for thirty seconds and then I managed to roll onto my back.

I saw Julian outlined by the light. His bulk was like the moon eclipsing the sun. All at once, he was massive and terrifying. He was made more so by the fact that I was
laying at his feet viewing him only in quick flashes as I spasmed on the floor.