Back Spin
Page 32
Two words: Coked up. Or Nose Candy. Or Toot Sweet. Take your pick.
Myron’s best chance was to confuse and strike. Risky. You wanted to piss them off, to upset their already-tipsy equilibrium. But at the same time, you wanted to control it, to know when to back off a bit. A delicate balance requiring Myron Bolitar, darling of the high wire, to perform high above the crowd without the benefit of a safety net.
Once again Crusty asked, “Why the fuck you following me, asshole?”
“Maybe I’m just attracted to you,” Myron said. “Even if you don’t have an ass.”
Beneath started cackling. “Oh man, oh man, let’s fuck him up. Let’s fuck him up good.”
Myron tried to give them the tough-guy look. Some mistook this for constipation, but he was getting better at it. Practice. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“Oh no?” It was Crusty. “Give me one good reason why we don’t just fuck you up. Give me one good reason why I don’t break every fucking rib in your body with this.” He raised the tire iron. In case Myron thought he was being too subtle.
“You asked before if I thought you were stupid,” Myron said.
“Yeah, so?”
“So do you think I’m stupid? Do you think somebody who meant you harm would be dumb enough to follow you in here—knowing what was about to go down?”
That made all three of them pause.
“I followed you,” Myron continued, “as a test.”
“What the fuck you talking about?”
“I work for certain people. We won’t mention names.” Mostly, Myron thought, because he didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. “Let’s just say they are in a business you guys frequent.”
“Frequent?” More nose rubbing. Toot, sweet, toot, sweet.
“Frequent,” Myron repeated. “As in occurring or appearing quite often or at close intervals. Frequent.”
“What?”
Jesus. “My employer,” Myron said, “he needs someone to handle certain territory. Somebody new. Somebody who wants to make ten percent on sales and get all the free blow they can.”
Eyes went buggy.
Beneath turned to Crusty. “You hear that, man?”
“Yeah, I hear him.”
“Shit, we don’t get no commission from Eddie,” Beneath went on. “The fucker is so small-time.” He gestured at Myron with the tire iron. “This guy, man, look how fucking old he is. He’s gotta be working for somebody with juice.”
“Got to be,” Escape added.
The Crusty One hesitated, squinted suspicion. “How did you find out about us?”
Myron shrugged. “Word gets around.” Shovel, shovel.
“So you was just following me for some kinda fucking test?”
“Right.”
“Just came to the mall and decided to follow me?”
“Something like that.”
Crusty smiled. He looked at Escape and at Beneath. His grip on the tire iron tightened. Uh-oh. “Then how the fuck come you were asking about me last night, huh? How come you want to know about a call I made?”
Uh-oh.
Crusty stepped closer, eyes aglow.
Myron raised his hand. “The answer is simple.” They all hesitated. Myron took advantage. His foot moved like a piston, shooting out and landing squarely on the knee of the unprepared Escape. Escape fell. Myron was already running.
“Get the fucker!”
They chased, but Myron had already slammed his shoulder into the fire door. The “macho-bullshit” part of him, as his friend at the Court Manor Inn had described it, wanted to try to take them on, but he knew that would be foolhardy. They were armed. He wasn’t.
By the time Myron reached the end of the alley, his lead was only about ten yards. He wondered if he’d have enough time to open his car door and get in. No choice. He’d have to try.
He grabbed the handle and swung the door open. He was sliding in when a tire iron whacked his shoulder. Pain erupted. He kept rolling, closing the door. A hand grabbed it, offered resistance. Myron used his weight and leaned into the pull.
His window exploded.
Glass tinkled down into his face. Myron kicked his heel through the open window and hit face. The grip on the door released. He already had the key out and in the ignition. He turned it as the other car window exploded. Crusty leaned into the car, his eyes blazing with fury.
“Motherfucker, you’re gonna die!”
The tire iron was heading toward his face again. Myron blocked it. From behind him, he felt a sharp blow connect with his lower neck. Numbness ensued. Myron shifted into reverse and flew out of the spot, tires squealing. Crusty tried to leap into the car through the broken window. Myron elbowed him in the nose and Crusty’s grip eased. He fell hard to the pavement, but then he jumped right back up. That was the problem with fighting cokeheads. Pain often does not register.
All three men ran for the pickup, but Myron already had too big a lead. The battle was over. For now.
16
Myron called in the pickup truck’s license plate number, but that was a dead end. The plate had expired four years ago. Crusty must have taken it off a car in a dump or something. Not uncommon. Even petty crooks knew enough not to use their real plates when committing a traceable crime.
He circled back and checked the inside of the building for clues. Bent syringes and broken vials and empty bags of Doritos lay scattered about the cement. There was also an empty garbage can. Myron shook his head. Bad enough being a drug dealer. But a litterbug?
He looked around a bit more. The building was abandoned and half-burned out. There was no one inside. And no clues.
Okay so what did this all mean? Were the three cokeheads the kidnappers? Myron had a hard time picturing it. Cokeheads break into houses. Cokeheads jump people in alleyways. Cokeheads attack with tire irons. Cokeheads, by and large, do not plan elaborate kidnappings.
But on the other hand, how elaborate was this kidnapping? The first two times the kidnapper called, he didn’t even know how much money to extort. Wasn’t that a little odd? Could it be that all this was merely the work of some out-of-their-league crusty cokeheads?
Myron got into his car and headed toward Win’s house. Win had plenty of vehicles. He’d switch for a car without smashed windows. The residual damage to his body seemed to be clearing up. A bruise or two but nothing broken. None of the blows had landed flush, except the ones to his car windows.
He ran several possibilities through his head and eventually managed to come up with a pretty decent scenario. Let’s say that for some reason Chad Coldren decided to check into the Court Manor Inn. Maybe to spend some time with a girl. Maybe to buy some drugs. Maybe because he enjoyed the friendly service. Whatever. As per the bank surveillance camera, Chad grabbed some dough at a local ATM. Then he checked in for the night. Or the hour. Or whatever.
Myron’s best chance was to confuse and strike. Risky. You wanted to piss them off, to upset their already-tipsy equilibrium. But at the same time, you wanted to control it, to know when to back off a bit. A delicate balance requiring Myron Bolitar, darling of the high wire, to perform high above the crowd without the benefit of a safety net.
Once again Crusty asked, “Why the fuck you following me, asshole?”
“Maybe I’m just attracted to you,” Myron said. “Even if you don’t have an ass.”
Beneath started cackling. “Oh man, oh man, let’s fuck him up. Let’s fuck him up good.”
Myron tried to give them the tough-guy look. Some mistook this for constipation, but he was getting better at it. Practice. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“Oh no?” It was Crusty. “Give me one good reason why we don’t just fuck you up. Give me one good reason why I don’t break every fucking rib in your body with this.” He raised the tire iron. In case Myron thought he was being too subtle.
“You asked before if I thought you were stupid,” Myron said.
“Yeah, so?”
“So do you think I’m stupid? Do you think somebody who meant you harm would be dumb enough to follow you in here—knowing what was about to go down?”
That made all three of them pause.
“I followed you,” Myron continued, “as a test.”
“What the fuck you talking about?”
“I work for certain people. We won’t mention names.” Mostly, Myron thought, because he didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. “Let’s just say they are in a business you guys frequent.”
“Frequent?” More nose rubbing. Toot, sweet, toot, sweet.
“Frequent,” Myron repeated. “As in occurring or appearing quite often or at close intervals. Frequent.”
“What?”
Jesus. “My employer,” Myron said, “he needs someone to handle certain territory. Somebody new. Somebody who wants to make ten percent on sales and get all the free blow they can.”
Eyes went buggy.
Beneath turned to Crusty. “You hear that, man?”
“Yeah, I hear him.”
“Shit, we don’t get no commission from Eddie,” Beneath went on. “The fucker is so small-time.” He gestured at Myron with the tire iron. “This guy, man, look how fucking old he is. He’s gotta be working for somebody with juice.”
“Got to be,” Escape added.
The Crusty One hesitated, squinted suspicion. “How did you find out about us?”
Myron shrugged. “Word gets around.” Shovel, shovel.
“So you was just following me for some kinda fucking test?”
“Right.”
“Just came to the mall and decided to follow me?”
“Something like that.”
Crusty smiled. He looked at Escape and at Beneath. His grip on the tire iron tightened. Uh-oh. “Then how the fuck come you were asking about me last night, huh? How come you want to know about a call I made?”
Uh-oh.
Crusty stepped closer, eyes aglow.
Myron raised his hand. “The answer is simple.” They all hesitated. Myron took advantage. His foot moved like a piston, shooting out and landing squarely on the knee of the unprepared Escape. Escape fell. Myron was already running.
“Get the fucker!”
They chased, but Myron had already slammed his shoulder into the fire door. The “macho-bullshit” part of him, as his friend at the Court Manor Inn had described it, wanted to try to take them on, but he knew that would be foolhardy. They were armed. He wasn’t.
By the time Myron reached the end of the alley, his lead was only about ten yards. He wondered if he’d have enough time to open his car door and get in. No choice. He’d have to try.
He grabbed the handle and swung the door open. He was sliding in when a tire iron whacked his shoulder. Pain erupted. He kept rolling, closing the door. A hand grabbed it, offered resistance. Myron used his weight and leaned into the pull.
His window exploded.
Glass tinkled down into his face. Myron kicked his heel through the open window and hit face. The grip on the door released. He already had the key out and in the ignition. He turned it as the other car window exploded. Crusty leaned into the car, his eyes blazing with fury.
“Motherfucker, you’re gonna die!”
The tire iron was heading toward his face again. Myron blocked it. From behind him, he felt a sharp blow connect with his lower neck. Numbness ensued. Myron shifted into reverse and flew out of the spot, tires squealing. Crusty tried to leap into the car through the broken window. Myron elbowed him in the nose and Crusty’s grip eased. He fell hard to the pavement, but then he jumped right back up. That was the problem with fighting cokeheads. Pain often does not register.
All three men ran for the pickup, but Myron already had too big a lead. The battle was over. For now.
16
Myron called in the pickup truck’s license plate number, but that was a dead end. The plate had expired four years ago. Crusty must have taken it off a car in a dump or something. Not uncommon. Even petty crooks knew enough not to use their real plates when committing a traceable crime.
He circled back and checked the inside of the building for clues. Bent syringes and broken vials and empty bags of Doritos lay scattered about the cement. There was also an empty garbage can. Myron shook his head. Bad enough being a drug dealer. But a litterbug?
He looked around a bit more. The building was abandoned and half-burned out. There was no one inside. And no clues.
Okay so what did this all mean? Were the three cokeheads the kidnappers? Myron had a hard time picturing it. Cokeheads break into houses. Cokeheads jump people in alleyways. Cokeheads attack with tire irons. Cokeheads, by and large, do not plan elaborate kidnappings.
But on the other hand, how elaborate was this kidnapping? The first two times the kidnapper called, he didn’t even know how much money to extort. Wasn’t that a little odd? Could it be that all this was merely the work of some out-of-their-league crusty cokeheads?
Myron got into his car and headed toward Win’s house. Win had plenty of vehicles. He’d switch for a car without smashed windows. The residual damage to his body seemed to be clearing up. A bruise or two but nothing broken. None of the blows had landed flush, except the ones to his car windows.
He ran several possibilities through his head and eventually managed to come up with a pretty decent scenario. Let’s say that for some reason Chad Coldren decided to check into the Court Manor Inn. Maybe to spend some time with a girl. Maybe to buy some drugs. Maybe because he enjoyed the friendly service. Whatever. As per the bank surveillance camera, Chad grabbed some dough at a local ATM. Then he checked in for the night. Or the hour. Or whatever.
