The Left Series (Book 3): Left On The Brink (13 page)

The Rolling Stones song was replaced by ‘
Muddy Waters
’ singing ‘
Mannish Boy
’ on the old fashioned, multi-colored juke box standing in the left corner of the room.

I wandered apprehensively to the bar
and sat on the stool next to Jim, who nodded along to ‘
Muddy’s
’ classic Blues track.

“Barman…hey
, mister barman, can we have a beer for my friend?” Jim called out, leaning over the counter.

The barman slowly strolled from a backroom from behind the counter. As he approached us the light from the beer pumps shone upwards over his face, illuminating his
features as a ghoulish mask. I immediately recognized the guy and recoiled, hurriedly sliding off the bar stool, sending it clattering to the wooden floor.

The guy stared at me from behind the counter, his beady eyes narrowed in scorn behind a pair of twisted
spectacles with shattered lenses.

“Soames!” I gasped. “What are you doing here?”

The tall slender, bald headed man standing in front of me was the doctor, who along with a bunch of renegade soldiers had incarcerated me and my companions at Newark Airport, on our way to Manhattan. I’d called him Doctor Doom and he’d administered me a large shot of mescaline before attempting to inject me with zombie blood, as part of some bizarre experiment to find a cure for the disease. Smith had saved the day on that occasion, which involved a gun-toting stand-off.  That mescaline shot had caused me to suffer weird side-effects, including horrific hallucinations, depression and suicidal contemplations. He had reluctantly joined our group at one stage of our journey but had succumbed to a fatal zombie attack on a small boat when crossing the Hudson River.

“I never liked you, Wilde
, you little shit!” Soames barked at me. His voice sounded hoarse and gurgled, as though he spoke with a mouthful of water.

“Hey, man, be cool. There’s no need for name calling,” Jim interrupted.

Soames turned his head swiftly to the former Doors lead singer. “You don’t know what this prick did,” he yelled. “He led us all to our deaths in some half assed plan to get to a boat in Battery Park Harbor. The whole place was crawling with undead. We never stood a chance.”

Jim shrugged. “Battery Park Harbor is a nice place.
It’s New York City, man, good a spot as any.”

Soames ignored Jim’s nonchalant comment
s and turned back to me.

“It’s not just me who feels the same way.” Soames pointed directly over my right shoulder.

The jukebox cut out, stopping ‘
Muddy’
in full swing and the bar became eerily silent. I stayed still, facing Soames, aware that something awful was about to happen. Jim swiveled around on his stool to face the main floor space of the roadhouse.

“Wow! That’s trippy,” I heard him mutter.

I spun around on my heels and was immediately confronted by a pack of zombies, lurching and shuffling their way across the floor towards me. I instinctively picked up the fallen bar stool and held the legs out in front of me, as though it was some kind of magic, protective shield. The sea of greenish white, half rotting faces were still recognizable despite the onset of decay. I knew or had known every one of them in the past. My Dad was leading the zombie crowd, behind him Eazy, Julia, Donna and Tippy formed an almost horizontal line. Headlong, a scruffy guy we’d known in New Orleans flanked my right side, preventing me from escaping through the exit door. My old friends, Pete Cousins and Marlon Keen stumbled around to my left with my ex-girlfriend, Samantha following close behind. Aggressive snarls and wails pierced the silence and the noise grew louder the closer they came.   

Many other faces I knew were amongst the rest of the pack, including a grinning, undead caricature of myself in the center of the horde. They reached out for me with clawing hands, with the intention of ripping me to pieces.

“I’m sorry you’re all dead,” I bleated. “I tried my best but it wasn’t my entire fault.”

“Hey,
I’m
dead and I’m cool with that,” Jim chipped in then took a swig of his beer.

The zombies ignored my pleas, encircling me and closing in. I slumped down to a sitting position with my back leaning against the counter. I held out the stool in front of me, closed my eyes and hoped I’d wake up real soon.

Chapter Sixteen

Smith felt tired, dirty and groggy. It had been one hell of a time during the last forty-eight hours. His back, his arms and his old wounds, where he’d been shot ached like a bitch. He turned to Wilde Man on his left and watched him sleep for a few seconds. The goofy kid’s closed eyelids flickered rapidly, probably locked in some torturous nightmare inside his unconscious mind. Smith smiled and sniggered to himself. He was fond of the crazy kid he’d teamed up with back in some shitty, backwater Pennsylvanian town he couldn’t even remember the name of.

Smith wasn’t big on relationships of any kind since his life had crumbled after serving as a U.S. Marine and then a New York City cop. He’d tolerated colleagues and endured short lived flings with various girlfriends. But something about Brett Wilde tugged a little at his heart strings. The kid was too old to be his son and a little too young to be his brother. Maybe it was Wilde Man’s vulnerability and naivety that he found so appealing.
Smith thought Brett looked like ‘
Sid Vicious
,’ the deceased bass player in the 1970’s punk band,
The Sex Pistols
. Sid and Wilde Man both shared the same pale complexion, skinny, slightly hunched frame and spiky black hair. The way Brett pronounced certain words with a trace of a London accent was a constant source of amusement for Smith.    

Batfish ruffled Spot’s head and the two of them settled down for some sleep.
The small dog lay across Batfish’s lap and lowered his head on his front paws. She shuffled her shoulders, got comfortable, tilted her head back against the head rest and closed her eyes.

Smith was glad they were all safe, albeit temporarily. He could relax for the time being.
He breathed out an exhausted sigh and moved his head back onto the cushioned head rest. Smith allowed his eyes to close and let his body relax. He thought about their destination and travel route. He thought about Canada and his mind relayed the last time he was there, two years ago. Things hadn’t gone well.

Smith felt his body go tense again as his memory
replayed the scenario like a Noire movie. His eyes remained firmly shut due to overwhelming fatigue and he reluctantly allowed the Canada situation to show the full, gory movie in his subconscious mind.

Half asleep, half fighting
exhaustion, Smith heard a noise like an old 8mm movie camera whirr through his mind. Like the old Bogart and Cagney movies, Smith was the narrator. The first scenes were jumbled, and focused between color and black and white. Eventually, he stood in Larry Puzino’s wood paneled office, above a Chinese laundry on Bowery Street in Manhattan, New York City.

The Canadian Operation

Larry was a big fat sack of shit. He’d murder his own grandmother for the price of a dime but he happened to be my boss. I can’t speak all bad about Larry. The fat, old gray haired guy took me in when nobody else wanted to know.

For those of you who ‘aint in the know, I used to be Franco Dematteo. I used to be plenty of things, husband, U.S. Marine, New York cop, semi pro boxer and unofficial Brooklyn street lamp climbing champion when I was a kid. Now, I was none of those things. Now, I was Larry’s fucking lapdog.

Larry sat
in his chair opposite me, a big wooden desk stood between us. Two guys sat either side of me, and I didn’t like or trust them as far as I could piss. Jimmy “The Lips” McLennan sat on my right and Toni “The Tool” Vicenza sat to my left. Both these guys were a couple of low paid scumbags and criminals in the minor league.

Jimmy was an Irish son of a bitch who mostly held up liquor stores and stole high end cars, while Toni was a fucking psycho. I didn’t relish the thought of working with that motherfucker at all.
They called him “The Tool” because he used to be a construction worker but mainly used the tools of his trade to inflict pain and suffering on guys that owed him money.

Jimmy was referred to as “The Lips” for his way of sweet talking his ass in and out of highly secure premises
– also for hitting on the ladies. He was a tall, lean guy with longish, blonde parted hair, clear complexion and pale blue eyes. You could say he was good looking, if you where that way inclined. Toni was the exact opposite; he was an ugly son of a bitch. He was big and bulky and sat awkwardly in the chair. He had huge hands, like bunches of bananas, which ran repeatedly across his bulging stomach as he sat. His face looked as though it had been chiseled out of rock, with a big protruding jaw, covered in graying stubble and a hooked nose that a witch would have been proud of. Prematurely graying hair hung in big curly lumps around the sides and top of his head and his beady black eyes darted in quick circles around the room. I wasn’t sure, but I’d guess Jimmy was around thirty years old and I’d place Toni roughly a decade older.

Jimmy was immaculately dressed in a cotton, fawn colored suit, crisp white shirt and tan brogues. Toni looked like he’d just rolled off a construction site, wearing a paint spattered blue
T-shirt, threaded denims and a pair of tatty sneakers that I could smell from where I sat.

I always liked to look good on these occasions when Larry was putting out tenders for work. I dressed in a dark blue summer suit, white shirt and black tie. If anyone asked, I was going to a funeral.

The way things worked was this – Larry’s guy Mario, would put together a few suitable guys for a job and then the modus operandi would be discussed at a meet and greet session, like we were at now. Mario was a big Italian/American guy who prowled the office with the hand grip of a Remington 1911 R1 sticking out of the waistband of his pants. He wore his black hair sleeked back in a ponytail and had a penchant for loud, brightly colored Hawaiian shirts. He was wearing a blue, purple and red number with a pair of white cotton slacks. Mario had frisked us all in the hallway before we’d entered the office, confiscating my Desert Eagle, Toni’s hunting knife and Jimmy’s small, snub nosed Colt Python.       

Larry bullshitted for a few minutes, making small talk. Then he got down to business
– the reason we were all sat in his sweaty office, enduring the reek of Toni “The Tool’s” rancid sneakers.

“Well, boys…here’s the deal,” Larry sighed. He always began a speech like that. “We have a problem with a certain person who has reneged on a deal with us, despite continual requests from us to come to some kind of arrangement.”

Jesus! Larry sounded like some bona fide IRS guy.

“The guy took a down payment on some particular merchandise we were going to purchase at cost and in bulk,” Larry continued. “The
bastard took our money and ran out on us, boys. I can’t have that. I won’t allow that. I’m getting heat on me from my guys upstairs.” Larry started ranting, waving his arms around by his head.

“What was the merchandise, Larry?” I interrupted.

“Hey, who fucking cares?” Toni butted in, a sour grimace on his face. “The asshole stole from Larry. He deserves all he gets.”

I could see Toni was eager to inflict some pain on our intended victim.

“Okay, if you must know.” Larry held up his hand like he was submitting us the truth he’d rather not tell. But to be honest, Larry was always going to spill the beans on this asshole who I assumed he wanted dead. “The guy in question is called Fernando Marquez. He grows batches of some kind of super weed that gets these kids all fucked up real quick. He’s found a way of growing these compressed crops real quick and he moves around a lot to avoid any heat from the cops.”

“So let me get this straight, Larry.” I wanted some clarity. I ignored Toni’s scornful glare and continued. “This Marquez guy took a down payment from you for a batch of this dope and he didn’t deliver?”

Larry nodded with a melancholy expression, as though the guy had robbed him of his last cent.

“How much are we talking here?”

“50-K,” Larry snapped. “It was all set up to be a regular little earner. Now, the guys upstairs are busting my balls to get their money back.”

Larry was the front man for a syndicate
who none of us regular guys had ever met or knew. Larry was our boss but his bosses were some ultimately rich and powerful men in high positions.

“Larry, can you please stop breaking my heart and tell
us the fucking details?” Jimmy spoke for the first time at the meeting. His voice was slightly high pitched and nasal.

“All right, all right,” Larry grunted. “I don’t need you assholes busting my balls as well.” He glanced over at Mario for some support. “I don’t need these guys busting my balls.”

“No ball busting today, Larry,” Mario retorted in a deep, gruff voice.

The three of us sat staring at Larry, waiting for him to continue. I’d seen him do this kind of stuff many times over, playing for time, playing a charade to get us on his side.

“Come on. Larry. The clock is ticking, I have to be someplace. What’s the deal?” Jimmy asked again.

Larry sighed and placed his chubby hands flat on his desk. He looked at each one of us in turn, eye to eye. He spoke in a cold, harsh low tone. “The deal is five grand a man, one now and four when the job is completed. I want this Marquez cocksucker dead and I want that 50
-K back.”

“Any idea where he is, Larry? Do I have to pack my shades and shorts?” I asked.

Larry nodded and smirked slightly. “Yeah, I know where the son of a bitch is. He’s in Canada.”

I sighed and looked down at Toni’s rancid sneakers. Larry’s operations usually had a catch and there was the big obstacle, right there in the last word he said. Canada.

Chapter Seventeen

“Canada?” Jimmy barked. “Fuck me, Larry! You’re talking about crossing borders here. A trip to Miami is one thing, but going across an international boundary is a whole different ball park.”
Jimmy stood from his chair in protest, his voice becoming higher pitched with every word he spoke.

“Quit whining and sit down, you little pissant,” Mario growled from the corner of the office.

Jimmy shut his mouth and did as he was told, but his protests were on the same lines as my thinking. This operation was not going to be a walk in the park by any stretch of the imagination. I just hoped Larry had this whole thing figured out.

Larry raised his hand, palm upwards and waited a beat until Jimmy had sat down and calmed down.

“I never said it was going to be easy. That’s why I asked you guys because I know you’re professionals.”

I nearly snorted in disgust
, going by the two guys either side of me.

“So what do you propose, Larry?” I asked, calmly. I wanted to hear all the gory details. If I thought his planning sucked, I was going to walk away from the job. I wished I had just got up and walked away at that moment. But hindsight is a beautiful thing.

Larry got serious and lowered his voice, like he was telling secrets out of school. “This Marques guy is holed up in a small town outside of Toronto,” he began. “I’ve got a source up there and he claims Marques is starting up his cultivating business again, offering the merchandise to the highest bidder. He has two nasty little Puerto Rican fucks that ride with him and provide the muscle…”

“Hey, wait a minute, Larry,” Jimmy butted in again with yet another founded protest. “You didn’t say nothing about three guys in total.”

Larry gave Jimmy a quizzical glare. “So, I’m telling you now, fuck face. Interrupt me again while I’m talking and I’ll have Mario here, shoot you through the kneecap, comprende?”

Mario stiffened as if to confirm he was standing by to do some shooting.

“All right, pray continue,” Jimmy said with a hint of sarcasm, slumping against the back of his chair.

Larry cleared his throat and carried on reciting his plans for the downfall of Mr. Marquez. I remembered listening to Larry bleating on but
his exact words faded from my mind. The reminiscence of the overwhelming heat in that cramped office and the overpowering stench of Toni’s sneakers were etched in my memory.

Time fast forwarded in Smith’s memory trance. Slight recollections of a long drive to
a small place called Tuscarora Bay, on the U.S. side shores of Lake Ontario, flickered in his mind. The bay sat somewhere between Niagara Falls to the west and Rochester, New York, to the east.

Smith teamed up with Jimmy and Toni on the quayside.
The unfriendly trio took a night crossing, swiftly cutting across the lake in a speedboat, helmed by another of Larry’s associates.

The unsociable, son of a bitch who drove the speedboat dropped us at a
secluded spot somewhere on the shore of Frenchman’s Bay. We were met by a rough looking guy with a big, bushy gray beard, who told us his name was ‘Chuck.’ I felt uneasy as we clambered into Chuck’s beaten up station wagon and drove away into the night, heading north-west. He drove through the city of Pickering and out into the countryside.