Tuesday morning was glorious.
Ray, as designated driver, picked up Bernie at his residence.
“I’m not looking forward to this,” Bernie grumped as he pulled himself into the van. He wore his work clothes, jeans and a comfortable Molly Mart winter coat and gloves. A stocking cap embroidered with a skull and crossbones pattern kept his head warm.
“Wayne, you mean?” Ray asked as he pulled into traffic.
“Fuckin’ Wayne Roberts,” Bernie hissed, not pleased at all. “Was awake half the night knowing I’d be working with that psychotic prick this morning. Half the fuckin’ night.”
Ray heard that. He’d lost a couple of hours himself. “Why do you think he’s in this crew?”
“Fuck if I know. Just don’t know. I tell you what, though. I got this.”
He pulled his prized Glock half out of his pocket.
“That shit snake gives me any trouble, I’ll shoot out a fuckin’ knee and sing along with whatever comes outta him. Then I’ll pop him in that greasy face of his.”
Ray winced, not wanting to hear such talk so early.
“Maybe he owes something to the brothers?” Bernie put forth.
“Dunno. Maybe. Can’t see Julian or Joey wanting to work too often with the likes of Wayne. He’s a small-time shit disturber.”
“A fuckin’ little dog amongst big dogs.”
“He’s pretty big,” Ray pointed out.
“I meant that figuratively.”
“Oh. Well. Maybe that’s the reason then. He’s a big guy. Strong. Can move the furniture and whatever. And didn’t he break a few arms for the Balls?”
“Yeah, he did. I just don’t like him.” Bernie leaned forward to study the passenger side mirror. “Just don’t like him. And I’m not putting up with his shit. Not one goddamn ounce of it. No sir.”
“It’s only for a day or two.”
“Tell that to the folks who died yesterday and woke up in hell.”
Ray’s eyes narrowed at the analogy.
Twenty minutes later and as mentally ready as they were going to be, they met up with Morg and Wayne at a gas station just outside St. John’s. Morg drove a nondescript four-door sedan that induced memory loss at a glance. He got out of the car and sauntered back to the van, splitting wintry smoke trails from various exhausts. He gestured for Ray and Bernie to meet him between the vehicles. By the look of his raccoon eyes, Ray didn’t think Morg got much sleep either.
The Pearsons’ lieutenant stopped at the van’s lowered window.
“Marnin’, Morg,” the lads chimed wearily from inside.
“Marnin’.”
“Thought you had a mustang, Morg,” Ray observed.
“I do. This is me work car. Easily forgettable.”
“You got that right,” Bernie chirped.
“Hey, listen, Wayne’s gonna ride with you.”
The words scrubbed the cheer from Ray’s face. “What?”
“No fuckin’ way,” Bernie blurted.
“Fuckin’ way,” Morg said evenly. “Got a splittin’ headache and I can’t handle him yappin’ in my ear the whole way out. I told him to shut up, but you know what it’s like talkin’ to that guy. He don’t listen. Anyway, he rides with you.”
“Morg,” Ray eyed the sedan, saw the back of Wayne’s head. “We don’t like the guy.”
“No one likes the guy,” Bernie added.
“I don’t like the guy either,” Morg agreed. “But he rides with you this morning.”
Bernie regarded his boots, clearly distressed by the new arrangement.
“Listen,” Morg explained, seeking to smooth feathers, “I’ve told him he’s gonna be riding with you guys and I warned him not to flick shit.”
“Didn’t you just say he doesn’t listen?” Bernie asked.
“Don’t be a smart-ass, Bern,” Morg warned. “Don’t be a smart-ass. I wasn’t shittin’ ya about the headache. Truthfully, feels like an axe got wedged in there. Wayne’s too damn big for the sedan anyway. Like jammin’ a Saint Bernard into a cupboard.”
“Like we give a shit about his comfort level,” Bernie fired.
“Look, he’s ridin’ with you so get used to it.”
Morg backed away, his sunken eyes regarding Bernie and Ray with a warning. The lieutenant backed up to his car door and opened it, informed Wayne of the car change. The goon got out of the sedan and made a scene of stretching his arms. Tall and crazy, Ray thought. Bernie stood and chewed on the inside of his cheek, clearly unimpressed with the new arrangement.
Morg nodded at the guy and Wayne took his time walking, greeting his new handlers with a smile. Bernie and Ray didn’t return it. Since Morg was the Pearsons’ foreman on the job, neither could complain about the ruling.
They went back to the van.
Which was when the fun commenced.
As Bernie reached out to open the passenger door, Wayne shot ahead of him and grabbed the handle. “I’ll ride up front.”
“That’s my seat,” Bernie protested and blocked him from opening the door. Wayne stood a full head higher and at least that much thicker across the shoulders than Bernie, but the smaller man didn’t back down. He pressed his own shoulder against the door and stared Wayne straight in the eye.
Ray had to give it to Bern. The boy didn’t scare easy. He couldn’t back down, really, not with an unstable wingnut like Wayne Roberts in his face.
A smiling Wayne yanked the door open, jostling Bern and sending him staggering backwards.
Bern straightened and moved to engage.
Ray took a breath and went in as backup.
“Hey!” Morg bellowed, freezing the three men. “Wayne, I told you not to stir up shit, so get in the back of that fucking van. Now.”
“I’m not sitting on the floor the whole way out,” Wayne protested, mouth screwed up as if he’d just sampled a shit bar. “Fuck that. Let me have a go.”
“That’s my seat,” Bernie pointed out.
“That’s his seat,” Ray echoed.
“You’ll have it better back in,” Bernie said. “There’ll be a nice sofa—”
“Any sofa,” Wayne interrupted, “in the back of this rig will have shit piled onto it. Fuck that. And fuck you. Why don’t you fit that skinny ass of yours somewhere in back? I’m carrying a full load here. A man’s load.”
“You’re a fuckin’ load, all right.”
“Hey,” Ray said from Bernie’s side. “Wayne, it’s my fuckin’ van. Bernie’s my boy; hence, Bernie rides in the front. You can get in the back or you can go the fuck home.”
Victory flashed across Bernie’s face.
Wayne absorbed the ruling and regarded Ray before focusing on Bernie, that psychotic gleam surfacing upon his face. “Fine.”
Bernie had the sense not to push it.
Ray waved to Morg, signaling that it was all good. The pack leader threw his hands into the air and got into his car. The rest of the lads climbed aboard the van and, in a minute, followed Morg’s sedan out to the TCH. Morg was the helmsman, the ranger, leading the van toward the glory that was the cabin. Ray didn’t mind Morg. At least with him around, he could sorta control Wayne and report any shittery to the Pearsons. Until then, however, Wayne was right behind Bernie and Ray. Unleashed and unsupervised.
Both men would have felt safer if they could have bound him with duct tape from neck to knees.
“Lovely morning for it,” Wayne said from the rear. “Lovely morning. Should be down on George’s Street. Y’know, once this is all done with, we should go on down and have a few. Knock back a few shots. That’s be all right, I think.”
Bernie and Ray slowly exchanged looks. Neither spoke.
“So… Ray,” Wayne started, stretching out in the back. “Funny to see you here. I’d heard you left the business. Became all sugary goody and shit. Heard you were going into training for a real career. Long haul driving.”
The traffic on Ray’s right whizzed by and he read the license plates.
“So how about it?” Wayne asked.
“How about what?”
“You get a real career?”
Ray inhaled and let it out slowly. “Got some training. Still might do something with it.”
“Around here?”
“Nah.”
“Mainland?”
Ray shook his head and Bernie frowned in the passenger seat. Neither of them wanted to engage in conversation with Wayne Roberts, especially not about future plans.
“Undecided,” Ray said.
“Uh-huh. And how about you there, Bernie Cook? This still the life for you? Or you movin’ on as well once your buddy does?”
“Thinkin’ about it,” Bernie said, squinting ahead and scratching at his balls.
“Didn’t I hear you got a job with the department of highway? Flagsman?”
Bernie’s face darkened in horror. “You got good sources.”
“I do. I certainly do, all right. I like to know who I’m working with. So how about it?”
“Didn’t get the job. Only had an interview.”
“An interview,” Wayne chuckled, as if it was hard to believe.
“Yeah, an interview. Even got a job offer.”
“Did you now?”
“Yep.”
“And you didn’t take it?”
“Nope.”
Ray glanced over at his friend. He’d heard the story already.
“Long ride here, Bern. Amuse me. Why didn’t you take the offer?”
Bernie checked his passenger window, obviously not wanting any part of the man behind him. “The interviewer was a prick. Big guy with a gut on him like he had a fucking turkey stuffed under his shirt. Walked into the office with this swagger and hands in his pockets, jingling the change the whole time he was on his feet. Smilin’, too. Smilin’ at me with this piggish little smirk, like he knew he had me by the dick thicket. He knew I was on parole. You could just tell. He looked down at me when he started askin’ all these questions and such, and I answered every one spot-on. You could see this guy squirmin’ and twistin’ and not likin’ how things are goin’ one bit. So, anyway, at the end, he goes, ‘Well, when can you start?’ I said anytime. He goes, ‘How about tomorrow?’ So like you would, I said yes, relieved the whole thing was over. But then he goes, ‘How do you feel about marnin’ prayer?’”
Ray shook his head.
“’Well, says I,’” Bernie reported, “I don’t do marnin’ prayers no more, and isn’t that against work regulations somewhere?’ Well, he doesn’t like that. Took the high and mighty road and then he started talking about Jesus and redemption and how he wouldn’t work with a criminal who wouldn’t accept religion. Even said I should be thankful to even get a job at all. So I told him to fuck off.”
Wayne snorted. “You didn’t.”
“Oh I did. Politely, though.”
“Politely,” Ray repeated.
“Yeah, I said, ‘Please… fuck off.’”
Wayne chortled again in the background, sounding like a dog having its tummy rubbed.
“Bet your parole guy wasn’t too happy with that,” Ray muttered.
“No. No he wasn’t,” Bernie admitted. “What the hell, right? I’ll find something eventually. Maybe I’ll just start shootin’ dickheads for hire.”
“Shoot folks for hire?” Wayne sniggered, the disbelief thick in his voice. “Pretty little man like you?”
“Bet you say that to a lot of guys,” Bernie said.
“Just before I kill ’em,” Wayne snarked. “One quick stab. Through the throat.”
Ray didn’t like where the conversation was going.
And, thankfully, the conversation stalled.
“Just thinkin’,” Wayne resumed after a minute. “You ever notice how, like, in movies, the assassins are always pointed out as assassins? Really general, like it’s no big thing? Like someone would say, ‘There he is, he’s a carpet cleaner. Works all over the country.’ Just like that. Everybody knows them, too. And course they got this killer reputation.”
“Carpet cleaners?” Bernie twisted in his seat.
“Assassins, shithead. Folks who play assassins in flicks and such.”
Bernie visibly didn’t like the shithead remark, not from the likes of Wayne Roberts. “So?”
“I’m thinking, if you were any good and people knew you were an assassin, you’d probably be arrested eventually. Or killed. Sure as hell wouldn’t want too many people to know you were a killer-for-hire.”
“In a movie, you mean.”
“I mean in real life.”
“Who the hell would I be tellin’ I was an assassin in real life?”
Ray decided to join the conversation. “You said killer-for-hire, Wayne. There’s a difference between hitmen and assassins.”
“Yeah? What’s that?” Wayne wanted to know. “Enlighten me.”
“Assassins only do important people. Hitmen, they’ll do the carpet cleaner for a buck.”
“Semantics, man,” Bernie said.
Ray shrugged. “Don’t even know what that word means.”
“It means some carpet cleaners can be real assholes,” Bernie explained.
Ray cocked an eyebrow. He wasn’t exactly sure what that meant either and decided to keep quiet about it.
“I killed this guy once,” Wayne started, and Ray knew right then he wasn’t going to like the story. “In a bar fight. Big rugby player who looked like he came down off a mountain or something. He was yellin’ and screamin’ in the club. Drivin’ me crazy. Can’t hunt the cuties when the likes of that is scarin’ them away. When he went into the can to take a leak, I followed him in. Didn’t even think about it. Just slammed his head into the mirror and crushed his windpipe. Did it with one karate chop. Just one. Stuffed him in a stall and walked out into the night. Four years ago.”
“Karate chop, eh?” Bernie asked, smelling the same bullshit Ray was smelling.
“One,” Wayne said.
“You know karate?”
“Just said I did.”
“No, you—”
“Just said I did,” Wayne’s voice overruled Bernie’s.
“Where’d this happen?” Ray asked.
“Out west. Calgary.”
“Uh-huh.”
Silence then, for a few seconds.
“Sounds like you don’t believe me, Ray Piper.”
“Oh, I believe plenty,” Ray said and shot a tired look Bernie’s way.
“Fuckin’ people up is only part of my résumé. Tell you all about it one day.”
Oh boy, Ray mouthed. Bernie caught it and smiled.
“Don’t either of you bastards doubt me, either,” Wayne warned them from the back. “Don’t fuckin’ doubt me. I’ve killed people and their dogs for a stick of gum in the past. No one knows ’cause I’m smart about it, see. I don’t talk about them all. And no one’s ever found the bodies because I’m that good. All across the country and down the states.”
Ray and Bernie decided to let that one go, suddenly uneasy with the turn of conversation.
“Nice van y’got here, Ray, me old trout,” Wayne said. “Nice one. Perfect size for stealing shit. Even kids. This thing is just the right size for kid pluckin’. Ever do any of that, Ray?”
The very question slackened Ray’s face with horror and he glanced over at Bernie, who was squeezing his eyes shut as if in a bad dream.
“Just pluck ’em off the streets or from the strollers. When they’re ripe, of course. I got contacts who are looking for that kinda thing. Pays top dollar, too.”
A gravelly chuckle then, straight from an open grave.
The words felt like a volley of flaming arrows loosed in Ray’s direction, and the wrath bled into his cheeks. He regarded the open highway, lips poised to spit, and thought about the remark for a quick scalding second. With a quick shake of his head, he flicked on his turn signal and pulled the van over to the side of the road.
Behind him, Wayne’s brow knotted up in puzzlement.
Morg’s sedan continued into the distance before the tail lights flared to life in a decidedly stern look of The hell you doing?
The van stopped with a lurch and Ray turned around, his seat squeaking. Bernie leaned in as well.
Wayne’s brow crinkled. “Something wro—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Ray said, cutting the man off. “Just shut the fuck up. You listen to me, you sick prick. I don’t like you. Never did. And after what you just said now, I fucking hate your rancid guts. You don’t talk to me about kids. Got that? You don’t talk about any kids. You remove all thoughts of kids from your shit-filled head. I got a four-year-old nephew, and if I hear you talk about stealing kids again there won’t be any jury for you. If I hear of any youngsters disappearing from the city, I’ll fuckin’ come after you with a baseball bat and a shitload of duct tape. And so help me God, I will fuck you up.”
“And I’ll help him,” Bernie added.
Ray spoke right where Bern stopped. “I don’t know why Julian and Joey brought you on this job, but I’m goddamn sure if they heard you talk the way you just did, they’d cut you up into dog chum and drop you in the harbor. Matter of fact, you better be on your best fuckin’ behavior for the rest of this trip, and that means not another fucking word. Else I’ll be telling them everything. Every-fucking-thing. And you can spend the rest of your short life shitting like a jackrabbit. Scared and on the run.”
Threat delivered, Wayne leaned back against the wall of the truck and considered both the men up front. A lazy smile appeared, like a man well fed, but his eyes gleamed in a most unfriendly way.
“Wow. Ray Piper shows his teeth. I’m impressed.”
Ray’s glare did his talking.
“You got it, chief.” Wayne nodded and held up both hands. He mimed zipping up his mouth and then tossed the key.
Ray and Bernie shared a look. Up ahead, Morg pulled over onto the shoulder and waited, no doubt wondering what the holdup was.
Ray sat and fumed at the wheel and Bernie watched him.
“You okay?”
“With that piece of shit sitting behind me?” Ray said aloud, not caring if Wayne heard or not. “No, Bern, I’m not fucking okay.”
Morg’s car crept toward them in reverse.
“He’s gonna wanna know,” Bernie said.
“And I’m gonna wanna tell,” Ray stated.
Despite being livid about Wayne, Ray put the van into gear and pulled back out into traffic. They shot past Morg behind the wheel, who watched the van pass by with a question on his face. Neither Ray nor Bernie commented.
And Wayne, as instructed, said not another word.
*
After an hour on the road, they pulled over at a gas station and restaurant with a huge wooden moose majestically erected upon a platform. Patrons shuffled toward washrooms while vehicles refilled tanks. Some folks stood outside, marveling at the brightness of the day while sipping coffees.
The atmosphere in the van hadn’t relaxed in the least. Neither Ray nor Bernie wanted to talk with the likes of Wayne Roberts for two reasons. The first being the child kidnapper might feel inclined to join in, and the other being Ray and Bernie didn’t want him listening in on any conversation they had. Things tended to come out in conversations. As it was, Ray was wondering if threatening the creepy bastard was the right thing to do. Wayne was the type to remember such threats.
Fuck ’im, Ray smoldered blackly. He’d bet on his baseball bat against Wayne’s imaginary karate chops any day of the week, and twice on Sunday.
Morg rolled to a stop ahead of the van and cracked open his door.
Ray got out. Bernie followed. Wayne remained in the back.
The Pearsons’ lieutenant wore a pair of retro ’70s sunglasses that hid most of his upper face, but the blunt puzzlement was easy to see. “What happened back there?”
Ray and Bernie joined him in a huddle by the sedan’s driver’s side.
“You take that fuck head from here on in,” Ray seethed, leaning into Morg’s unflinching face. “You take him, else I take a bat to his head and leave him in a ditch.”
Morg looked from Ray to Bernie and back again. “What’d he do?”
“You know he’s a fuckin’ kid snatcher?”
That dropped the ’70s cool from Morg’s face. “What?”
“He’s a fuckin’ kid snatcher,” Ray whispered with suppressed fury. “Said so while I was drivin’. That’s the reason I pulled over when I did. Ask Bernie, he’ll tell you.”
“He said it,” Bernie said.
“What?” Morg gasped, looking to the van.
“You heard me.”
“The fuck is up with that?”
“The fuck are the Ball Brothers doing with that piece of shit?” Bernie wanted to know.
“Look,” Morg said, standing with his feet spaced shoulder-width apart and his hands on his hips. “Joey and Julian didn’t know about that. They’d put him face-first into a meat grinder if they knew that and guaranteed I’d be the one turning the crank. I mean, what, how, did this even come up?”
“In passing conversation,” Ray said. “It just bubbled out of him like we were talking about sports or something. Listen. Something’s seriously off with that douchebag. I mean seriously off. He rides with you from here on out. I don’t want his ball sack stainin’ the floor of my van.”
Morg thought about the request and nodded. “All right. Send him over. Jesus Christ. He really said that?”
The pair nodded.
“Jesus Christ. That turns my guts.”
“I’m poisoned,” Ray said. “Poisoned. I was reluctant when I saw the guy. He’s got a reputation, y’know. Half the city knows about him.”
“We all got reputations,” Morg countered as a big rig blasted by on the highway, the wake ruffling the coats of the three men. Morg paused for a moment before leaning in and motioning the others to join him. “Look, Julian figured you’d need him for any dirty work. Roberts got no scruples.”
“We know that now,” Bernie said.
“I guess we do, but Julian figures every crew needs at least one guy who’ll pull the trigger if the need arises. And Wayne has a good rep with the lads. Did a bunch of small jobs without a hitch. So there wasn’t any thought when this gig came up. Wayne just got plopped in there.”
“Wayne’s a goddamn freak,” Ray stated.
“I know he’s a goddamn freak.”
“I don’t want him on this job anymore.”
“Taxis come through here all the time,” Bernie observed. “We could leave him and carry on without.”
Morg shook that off. “Wayne would probably hold the place up if we did that. Or worse. Look, I’ll take him.”
That placated the two men.
“Morg,” Ray said, “I’m givin’ you a heads-up now. He knows we’re talking about him. Knows damn well we hate his guts. If he tries anything, I’ll kill him and leave him in the woods for the bears. And that’s the best I’ll do for the likes of him.”
Morg nodded in agreement. “I don’t blame ya. Not in the least. All right, let me go take a leak and we’ll get back on the road.”
Having said their minds, Ray and Bernie watched Morg enter the gas station’s convenience store.
“You gettin’ anything to eat?” Bernie asked.
“Fuck no.”
“Me neither.”
“That twisted fuck’s unstable.” Ray turned his back to the van. Bernie turned with him.
“Job’s already gone into the shitter,” Bernie said.
“With a plink. You know something? If he tries anything, I meant what I said—I’ll put him down. If you lend me your gun, I’ll shoot the bastard. Probably shoot him anyway, just on principle. I know me, and I don’t think I can let the guy walk away after the job’s done.”
“I’m thinking of doin’ it myself. I got a reason now.”
“As if we needed one before.”
Bernie glanced at the van. “Hey. Look.”
Wayne’s head oozed out cautiously from between the pair of seats, looking this way and that, before fixing upon the two men.
He smiled.