Havoc - v4 (16 page)

“No problem,” Harry said breezily as he turned onto Atlantic Avenue. “You forget Tiny and I come up here whenever you’re out of town.”

“And take my car,” Mercer added.

While Mercer hadn’t been impressed by Atlantic City’s boardwalk, with its T-shirt shops, psychic readers, and saltwater taffy stands, it was infinitely better than the rest of the city. Just a block from the glitzy multimillion-dollar hotel-casinos the neighborhoods were some of the poorest in the nation. Abandoned houses were covered in graffiti, yards were choked with weeds, and teens loitered in hunting packs like wild animals. Smashed bottles littered the gutters and few of the streetlights still worked. The pall of apathy and despair was overwhelming.

“Cali, honey,” Harry said as they flashed through an intersection. “I need you to focus on the road about a hundred yards ahead. My night vision isn’t what it used to be.”

She nodded grimly and tightened her seat belt.

They had enough of a head start that Harry could keep one turn ahead, but the Rolls was so slow on acceleration that he couldn’t shake the little Metro. He broke out onto a long street and revved the engine, winding out the old six-cylinder until it shrieked and managed to gain a few precious yards.

Mercer watched the Metro wheel around the corner, side-swiping an abandoned sedan. The range was too much for him to waste one of his precious bullets, but Poli’s man had no such shortage. He steadied his pistol out the passenger window and cycled through the magazine. Most of the rounds went wild thanks to the potholed macadam, but two hit the Rolls. One blew off Cali’s side mirror and the other slammed into the trunk, burying itself in a pair of matching Louis Vuitton suitcases that the valet hadn’t had the time to remove.

There was a convenience store on the next corner. Many of the lights in the metal canopy above the gas pumps were out but the place was still open. Neon signs hung in the store’s windows and a tricked-out Honda Del Sol was pulled up to the curb.

Though Mercer had never smoked, he had developed the habit of always carrying a couple of disposable lighters in his pocket. It was the old Boy Scout training, and having them with him had saved his life more than once.

“Harry, get ready to cut through that gas station.”

Mercer pulled the stopper from the decanter of liquor, and stuffed one of the linen napkins that the highball glasses were sitting on into the mouth.

“Hey, I smell booze,” Harry said. “Save me some.”

“Sorry, old boy.” Mercer upended the bottle, soaking the napkin in what smelled like a very good single-malt Scotch. “When we drive through the gas station, I want you to take out one of the pumps.”

“Are you crazy?” Cali shouted.

“Like a fox,” Harry said with delight. He had supreme confidence in Mercer, so he was actually enjoying himself.

Harry slowed slightly to lure the Metro, and then jerked the wheel to the right. The big car bottomed out as it shot over the crosswalk, kicking up a shower of sparks. Cali screamed as he nearly ran over a homeless man sitting on the curb drinking from a large bottle of malt liquor. Like a juggernaut the Rolls raced across the lot, Harry aiming unerringly at the second pump in line. Mercer lit his improvised Molotov cocktail. The alcohol-soaked linen caught fire instantly.

In a maneuver that taxed both his strength and dexterity Harry tweaked the wheel to miss one of the steel columns holding up the canopy, drove the car up onto the island curb, and sent the front fender crashing through one of the old pumps.

The deceleration was brutal. Cali snapped forward, her head missing the dash by inches. The pump was sheared off at its base, tumbling end over end while the gasoline still in the lines splashed to the ground in a dark stain. Mercer pulled himself from the floor where he’d sprawled, the Molotov cocktail held high as if he were an outfielder clutching a ball he’d dived for.

The Metro was twenty yards back and coming on hard. He could see Poli’s one eye shining with hatred. His partner had reloaded and was just reaching out to open fire again. Harry regained control of the car and brought it off the curb, aiming for the next cross street. Mercer shoved himself half out the side window, took aim, and heaved the fiery bottle back toward the pump. It hit just in front of the hole in the concrete island where gas was fed to the pump from a huge underground tank. The cut crystal shattered and for a sickening moment he thought the Scotch hadn’t caught fire. But it had, burning with a clear flame that quickly reached the flash point of the pulsing waves of gasoline fumes spewing from the tank.

Like a rocket motor, the gas ignited, sending a coiling jet of fire fifteen feet into the air. It licked, then blackened, the underside of the canopy. Poli had closed the gap to twenty feet from the back bumper of the Rolls when the gasoline detonated. It exploded almost directly next to the Geo, forcing him to crank the wheel hard over. His car smashed into the rear of the lime green Del Sol, kicking the sports car across the pavement and tearing off its rear fairing. The Honda’s alarm shrieked over the combustive roar of the flames.

Harry accelerated away from the conflagration, shifting smoothly through the gears. Built in an age long before airbags and automatic seat belts, the Rolls’ thick metal skin had protected the engine’s vital areas, and other than a wrinkled fender the luxury car was none the worse.

“That ought to buy us some time,” Mercer said with satisfaction.

“I see a sign for the Atlantic City Expressway,” Cali said.

“Where?” Harry asked, peering through the windshield.

“Straight ahead.”

“What, that green blur above the road?”

Cali smiled. “Yeah. It’s actually the right-hand green blur.”

In moments the big car made its grand entrance onto the expressway, the main artery out of Atlantic City and back to the mainland. The Garden State Parkway was only a couple of miles ahead. Traffic on the inbound lanes was heavy but fortunately there were very few people leaving the city. Harry edged the Rolls up to seventy.

Mercer continued to glance behind them in case Poli somehow managed to get the Geo running again. He was about to dismiss a fast-approaching vehicle until he noted the distinctive paint job. The Honda Del Sol had to be doing a hundred and twenty as it barreled down the expressway, cutting through traffic with the effortless grace of a slalom racer.

“Will this guy ever quit?”

“What is it?” Cali asked. She looked over her shoulder and saw the fast-approaching sports car. “Jesus.”

“What do you want me to do?” Harry asked. They were outgunned and were no match for either the Honda’s speed or its agility.

Before Mercer could come up with another plan, Poli’s teammate began firing again. Unlike before, the smooth asphalt gave him a steady shooting platform, and rounds found their mark.

“Cali, do you speak French?” Harry growled.

“Huh?” She wasn’t sure if she’d heard right, or if Mercer’s friend had lost his mind.

Harry kept one eye on the rearview mirror as he drove. His jaw was set firm and there was the barest trace of a smile on his lips. He kept watching the Del Sol edge up to within ten feet of the back bumper. “I want to know if you speak French because I’m gonna ask you to pardon me using it.” He paused for another second, judging angles and speed, then shouted, “Fuck you, buddy!”

Standing on the brake pedal didn’t have the dramatic results Harry had expected. As if ignoring the driver’s wishes, the heavy car merely rocked forward on its suspension in what could be described as a stately deceleration. The maneuver forced Poli to apply the Del Sol’s brakes, tricked out discs that could have stopped the nimble sports car on a dime. Sensing an opening, he raced alongside the Rolls to give his partner a clear shot into the Silver Wraith.

This is what Harry had been waiting for. He spun the wheel in an attempt to crush the light Honda between the Rolls and the guardrail. He could see Poli almost smile at the vain attempt, as he applied more brake to tuck in behind the Rolls-Royce once again. But Harry had another trick up his sleeve. He reached for the hand brake and gunned the engine to build up enough RPMs to slam the transmission down into third gear. The big car shuddered at the insult to its machinery, but it complied. This time the deceleration was almost instantaneous, as the big in-line six-cylinder engine quickly lost power. Poli was also quick, but not quick enough. The Rolls pinned his Honda against the guardrail and held it there effortlessly. A shower of sparks, torn metal, and fiberglass spewed from the Del Sol as it was remorselessly smeared against the metal barricade. Its right front tire blew and its steel belt ripped through the fender like a grenade going off, and still Harry kept up the pressure, all the while laughing demonically.

“Harry,” Cali screamed. “Gun!”

Poli’s partner had recovered enough to try to fire into the Rolls while Poli fought to keep the disintegrating car from climbing the railing.

Harry shoved the hand brake back into its recessed slot and swerved away from the Del Sol. He slid the transmission back into fourth and watched in his rearview mirror as the little Honda slid to a stop in a cloud of smoke. There was a lick of flame from the blown tire, and steam erupting from the crushed radiator. Harry caught Mercer’s eye in the mirror and repeated what Mercer had said moments earlier. “Now, that ought to buy us some time.”

Mercer squeezed Harry’s bony shoulder. “You drive my Jag like this and I will kill you.”

Harry chuckled. “I have a confession to make.”

The tone made Mercer nervous. Even Cali picked up on it. “Yeah, and what’s that?” Mercer asked with trepidation.

“Tiny and I have been pulling your leg about me driving when we come up here. I haven’t been behind the wheel of a car in years.” He craned his head around to look at Mercer. “But, hey, it’s like falling off a bike. Do it once and you never forget.”

“Eyes on the road please.”

“I don’t think we should use the Garden State,” Cali said. “Even though the police are going to be busy at the Deco Palace, there’s sure to be a description out of a stolen Rolls-Royce.”

“Good thinking,” Mercer said.

“So where are we heading?”

“Get onto 9 North. We’re going to have a chat with a guy named Erasmus Fess about a safe his father claimed fell from the
Hindenburg
not long before it exploded.”

It took forty-five minutes to reach Waretown and locate the home of Erasmus Fess. The sweep of the Rolls’s only working headlight revealed that the property had once been a farm. There was a one-story farmhouse with a shed roof overhanging a sagging porch. At some point the original support columns had been removed, and now the whole affair was supported by unpainted two-by-fours. The sofa on the porch was the bench seat of an old car mounted on a metal stand. The forlorn house was covered with a fur of peeling and cracked paint. Flickering blue light spilled from the front window. The Fesses were home watching television.

Behind and to the right of the house was a metal-roofed barn that looked even more neglected than the yard. There were half a dozen cars parked randomly around the house. Most were rusted heaps sitting on flattened tires, with smashed windshields and rumpled fenders. A flatbed tow truck stood watch over the vehicles, “Fess Towing and Salvage” written on its door above a phone number. Behind the barn was a corrugated metal fence that stretched out into the darkness. The gates were open, and inside was a sea of abandoned cars lined up in meandering rows. A large forklift sat just inside, its steel tines thrust through the side of a Volkswagen like the lance of a knight through the armor of an enemy.

“Jesus,” Harry breathed as he shut off the engine. “If we see a kid playing the banjo or someone comments on how pretty my mouth is, we’re outta here.”

“Amen, brother, amen.” Mercer stepped from the car and tucked the automatic pistol behind his back. A cat raced off the porch and vanished under one of the dilapidated cars.

With Harry and Cali behind him, Mercer mounted the sloping porch. A screen door hung awkwardly from its broken hinges. The torn screen was loose and showed signs of being clawed by the cat. Mercer shouldered it farther aside and rapped on the main door. When there was no response he hit it again, a little louder.

“Get the goddamned door,” a male voice shouted from inside, almost loud enough to rattle the windows.

“I’m busy,” a woman shouted back. From the sound of it, both were seated in the front room no more than a few feet from each other. Harry hummed the theme from
Deliverance
.

“Jesus, woman! I’m watching
Wheel
. Go see who it is.”

“Fine.”

A moment later the front porch light, actually a naked bulb hanging from its wiring, snapped on. In seconds it had attracted every insect within a five-acre area. The woman who opened the door had a cigarette dangling from her slack mouth, and a bovine expression. She wore a housecoat that showed off her thick, blue-veined calves. Her feet were shod in slippers and Mercer could see that her toenails were cracked and yellow, more like horn or the rough body of a beetle. Her eyes were watery behind the cigarette smoke, an indeterminate color, and small. She was as thick as she was wide and probably tipped the scales in the two-hundred-and-fifty-pound range. The shadow of a mustache on her upper lip was inky black.

Behind her was a short hallway and the kitchen. The old metal sink was piled with dishes, and the fly strips above it were blackened with their victims.

“Mrs. Erasmus Fess?” Mercer said, hiding his revulsion. He put her age anywhere between fifty and a hundred.

“That’s what it says on the marriage license.” Her high-pitched voice and brusque manner made her sound like she was screeching rather than talking. “What do you want?”

“I would like to speak with your husband.”

“Who is it, Lizzie?” Erasmus Fess shouted from the living room just off the entrance.

She turned to face her husband. “How the hell should I know? He wants to talk to you.”

“Tell ’em we’re closed. Come back in the morning if he wants a car or a tow.” He then cajoled the contestants on his television. “Come on. Big money. Big money!”