XXI
Task drove the silver sedan north and west. Sharp, heavy thoughts rattled around in his brainpan, and exhaustion combated his senses. Outside, the city was nothing but a collection of dim, moving shapes.
The slick returned his car to the parking garage of his building and wound down to the nether level. Eyeing the shadows, he climbed out of the vehicle and up the stairs. The snub-nosed revolver remained inside of his right pocket.
Task opened the door to 208, and the match fell from the jamb. Pain, exhaustion, and guilt were thick in his brain as he walked into the living room, turned on the lights, snapped two bolts, ambled into the kitchen, poured himself a scotch, took the drink to the den, switched on a standing lamp, and sat on a couch. White leather creaked beneath his weight.
Silence expanded, giving volume to the events that had filled the thousand-hour day.
The slick marinated his tongue in scotch, swallowed, and set down the tumbler. Slow fingers unlocked his cellphone and highlighted the number he wanted.
“Yeah?” said Dublin, who sounded groggy.
“I need you to join me for my morning drive.”
“The kind of morning that occurs in four hours?”
“That’s its location.”
“Yours or Fraulein?” asked the manager.
“Mine.”
“You’ve got any cough syrup?”
“One bottle,” Task said while removing the revolver from his pocket. “But we could use more.”
“I’ll bring some.”
Dublin was a good marksman who had shot some human legs, a couple of feet, and a dozen cars over the years. (Most of these incidents related to somebody not yielding the right of way or somebody doing something disrespectful to his prized German two-seater, Fraulein.)
“I’ll be by your place at five,” said Task.
An unintelligible mutter came from the manager.
“Bye.”
“Yeah.”
The slick killed the connection, set the alarm on his cellphone for four fifteen, finished his scotch, leaned back on the sofa, and shut his eyes. Nightmares came instantly. These distorted tableaux were inhabited by Nowski, Detective Delgado, Captain Alder, Mrs. Alder, Andrea, and strange hybrids of these people. His subconscious had been completely flooded by the grim events of his waking life.
The cellphone alarm chimed, startling Task awake. It was either very late Sunday or very early Monday. The injuries on his head, neck, and pelvis throbbed anew, reborn and invigorated by the three hours of fitful sleep that had occurred upon the white leather couch.
Wincing, the slick headed for the bathroom. Pain shot through his bladder when he urinated, and he checked the toilet bowl for blood, but saw only piss. He flushed, washed his hands and face, changed shirts, grabbed a charcoal jacket, pocketed the revolver and a bottle of painkillers, snagged three videocassette cases, set a match in the doorjamb, and returned to the parking garage.
The gray and black enclosure was quiet.
Watching the shadows for lowriders, Task walked to his silver sedan, sank into the upholstery, and ignited the engine. He adjusted the steering wheel with one hand and gripped his revolver with the other as he drove up toward ground level. His home and the parlors were the most likely locations for a second ambush, and he needed to be especially vigilant in these locations.
The silver car climbed the ramp that led to the surface. Headlights lashed Barrel Avenue, and the slick saw that the street was empty (as was usually the case at this time of morning). In the east, the black sky was starting to go gray.
Task relaxed, pocketed his firearm, dialed the steering wheel counterclockwise, and headed north. A couple of minutes later, he realized that he was driving toward Ed’s, the diner where he usually met Nowski, rather than toward Dublin’s building, which was at the edge of the Pastels.
The slick righted his course, drove for ten minutes, and sidled to the curb outside of a light-yellow building.
A minute later, the plump manager emerged, dressed in a black shirt and blue jeans and holding a metal lunchbox. His curly red hair had been subdued by gel, and his frown looked like bratwurst.
Dublin circumvented the car, tossed himself into the passenger seat, and slammed the door. Menthol and rubbing alcohol smells filled the car.
“Is that cologne?” inquired Task.
“Aftershave.”
The slick palmed silver tabs, lowering all four automatic windows. “Try a gallon less.”
“Did the machos do that to your face?”
“Yeah.”
Task toggled the gear stick, spun the steering wheel, and pressed the accelerator. Diagonal tires pulled the sedan through a U-turn.
“We’re starting at the place on Lewis?” asked Dublin.
“Yep.”
The slick righted the car, drove to the end of the block, and cornered. A glance at the dashboard told him that it was twelve minutes after five.
Silence sat between the pair for a mile.
The manager raised his dented lunchbox, which was adorned with some pictures of vintage muscle cars.
“Your cough syrup’s in there?” inquired Task.
“Some of my best.”
“How many’d you bring?”
“Four.”
“You can shoot with your feet?”
“There isn’t ever gonna be a situation where I’m thinking, ‘I really wish I had one less gun right now.’”
“Put the extras in here—” The slick ran his right index finger along a vertical slit on the side of the passenger seat.
Dublin opened the lunchbox and withdrew two semiautomatics, which he then holstered. The other weapons he covered with a handkerchief and slid into the upholstery.
“Any idea who hit us yesterday?”
“No.”
“Spics or niggers?”
“Sounded like Hispanics, though they were in ski masks and didn’t say much.”
“Shooting a guy for twenty-eight hundred.” Bratwurst appeared on the lower half of the manager’s face. “You think they’ll be back?”
“They tried to kill me once…and obviously they know something about our operations.”
“You need help putting them on the plane to Alaska, I’m there.”
During high school, Nowski had gone out with Dublin’s kid sister Frances, a darling and petite girl who was almost nothing like her brother. The relationship had ended amicably after about a year, and by that time, the bodybuilder and the grumpy redhead had become friends.
Task slowed the sedan for two joggers who were bouncing across the road. “I’ll keep you in mind.”
Five minutes later, the car hugged the curb of the ten-story baby blue building in which lay the Lewis Street parlor.
The slick surveyed the Pastels.
Bicycle reflectors and bright white sneakers danced upon curvilinear trails in the park across the way. Nobody threatening was in the vicinity.
“See you.”
Dublin grunted, heaved himself outside, and shut the door.
A cellphone buzzed.
Only three people currently had Task’s new number: Dublin, Andrea, and Strembicky.
Carefully watching the area, the slick plucked the device from his pocket and glanced at the display.
The call was from his guarantor.
Task thumbed the touchscreen, put the cellphone to his ear, and grunted, jerking the plastic from the swollen flesh. His left hand then applied the receiver to the opposite side of his head. “Good morning.”
“Is this a bad time?” inquired Strembicky.
“No. Just dealing with a souvenir that the machos gave me.”
The line turned into an empty cavern. No sounds were conveyed for a few moments.
“You conversed with them?” asked the guarantor.
“Yeah. And a bunch of their questions had five to ten fingers.”
Again, the line was silent.
“Can you be at the bakery by nine?” inquired Strembicky.
“Yeah.”
“Come alone.”
The line went dead.
Task was not at all surprised by the brusque nature of the conversation. If a guy spoke to the machos, he was suspect.
Pocketing the cellphone, the slick surveyed the area.
Nobody was around, excepting a shirtless man in red shorts whose dog was making impasto paintings in the grass with its behind.
The front door of the apartment building flashed, swinging open, and Dublin walked outside. Glancing suspiciously in all directions, he crossed the front lot, circumvented the car, and heaved himself into the passenger seat.
Aftershave replaced oxygen, but the slick chose not to again remark upon the smell.
The manager shut the door and shoved the money belt underneath his seat.
“Everything’s linear?”
“Yeah. Though Watkins is pretty freaked out about what happened to Nowski.”
“I’ll talk to him once I’ve got some answers.”
The charcoal sky became medium gray as Task drove south and west to One Hundred and Eighty-ninth Avenue. There, he sidled the car and watched his associate walk into the twenty-story building that contained the only bi-level parlor—2G had an airlock, three bedrooms, and a closeted stairwell that led up to 3G, a loft space that had been turned into a casino. The front entrance of the upper unit had been sealed off with bricks, and its interior could only be accessed through the nether apartment.
Sitting in the silver sedan, Task surveyed the area.
The sidewalk provided an unyielding mattress for one bearded vagrant who did not move (but was probably still alive), and the road was empty.
Yawning enormously, the slick nestled his skull in the headrest.
Something flashed outside.
Task sat up and looked toward the moving object.
Standing beside the hood ornament was a gray kingfisher with a white collar and a blue ascot. If this fellow’s uptown relative had alerted the slick to the presence of the hidden shooters a few seconds earlier than it had, the bodybuilder might still be alive.
Distant tires screeched, and the frightened bird corkscrewed into the slate vault. Something zoomed around the corner of the next block.
Withdrawing the snub-nosed revolver, Task looked west. His breath caught, and ice replaced his insides.
The moving object was low to the ground and maroon.
Heart pounding, the slick raised his gun.
The lowrider roared directly at the parked silver sedan.
Task aimed his revolver through the windshield and targeted the driver’s side of the oncoming car. Holding his hands steady, he squeezed his right index finger.
The gun had no trigger.
Startled, the slick woke up behind the wheel of the parked sedan, which was outside of the parlor on Preston Avenue. Dublin was inside the building, and the coffee that Task had purchased after leaving One Hundred and Eighty-ninth currently overpowered the smells of man perfume.
A quick survey of the area revealed nothing but some parked cars, a row of off-white buildings, and the garbage bins where the indebted superintendent Javier was currently carrying two big trash bags.
Dublin emerged from the building, chewing on something that dripped crumbs. Rolled up under his armpit was the money belt, which evidently could not fit around his waist.
The manager heaved himself into the sedan and slid the monetary bundle underneath his seat. His jaw worked, chewing something that smelled like cinnamon.
“If it doesn’t get around your waist, put it under your shirt.”
Dublin swallowed what he was eating. “Fine.”
“They have pastries in there?”
“Yeah.”
“Karate John’s keeping it clean?”
“This is an actual concern of yours?” the manager asked while wiping his mouth. “Crumbs?”
“Vermin are a concern. If somebody decides to send an exterminator around, something might get noticed.”
“It looked clean.”
The slick stepped on the brake and clutched the gear stick.
“That ear’s really swelling up.”
Task glanced into the rearview mirror and swiveled his head.
Jutting from the left side of his skull was an ugly purple flap.
“And your right eye’s Oriental.”
Spinning the wheel, Task returned the silver sedan to the street. “Count and package the sum.”
“In what?” asked Dublin.
“Look in the back.”
“Oh.”
The manager retrieved the videocassette boxes from the rear bench and gathered the money belts from underneath his seat.
Turning the wheel, the slick cornered onto an empty side street, where he watched the mirrors for two-legged or four-wheeled followers.
Nobody was trailing the sedan.
Task drove toward the Pastels.
In the passenger seat, Dublin fingered the earnings for Saturday and Sunday. “Twelve thousand nine hundred forty.”
“Okay.”
On another day, this figure would have put the slick in a good mood. A lot of green fruit had been earned during the five-week period that all four parlors had been open, and he was now fifty-eight percent of the way to his three-and-a-half-million-dollar retirement goal. (A sum that would be comprised of stockpiled cash, real estate, and a portfolio of legitimate investments.)
The manager opened a plastic videocassette case that showed a tanned, oiled, and shirtless guy who held an Uzi in each hand and a survival knife in his teeth. Inside of the empty clamshell box for The Deadliest Solution, the manager laid a third of the bills. Another slice of green fruit was deposited into the container for Wild Cats in the Oven, which showed two buxom women in tattered prison apparel choking and scratching each other through thick iron bars, and the monetary remainder went into The Pentagram Hunter.
Dublin bound these cases together with two rubber bands and shoved the bundle under his seat. “Ready for Mexico.”
Task cornered onto Middle Street and the Pastels slid into view. “Thanks.”
“Yeah,” said Dublin. “You dropping me off now?”
“I’ve got a meeting.”
“Affiliates?”
“Yep.”
“I hope they can do something here.”
“They’re vast.”
The manager scratched an armpit. “So what am I doing now that Commerce is closed?”
“You’ll do the roundup with me until we open a new parlor.”
Bratwurst appeared on the lower half of Dublin’s face. “I’ve been managing longer than Karate John or Bill. Let one of them be your gopher.”
“You’re better equipped to handle a situation than they are.”
The manager could not disagree with this statement. “Fine.”
Ten minutes later, the slick parked outside of the light-yellow apartment building. “I’ll let you know when I hear about a wake or the funeral.”
Dublin grumbled something, slammed the door, and departed.
Thinking of the upcoming meeting with Strembicky and watching for lowriders, Task drove north.