Asking For Trouble (8 page)

The small man beamed. “That’s the attitude. These two said I was making a mistake.”

The linebackers frowned.

The small man dug in his pocket and threw a set of keys to Todd. He caught them and examined them.

“Those fit a black Jag. You’ll find it outside Denko’s restaurant in the city. Bring it to me in Oakland.”

“When?”

“Oh, I like you. I debated just beating the crap out of you, but I wanted to give you a chance to make up for your error. You’ve assessed the situation and decided to stand by your mistake. I admire that.” The small man stood and dropped a note on Todd’s newspaper. “Bring the Jag to me tonight. Addresses are on the paper. See you at midnight.”

The black linebacker brushed Todd aside to open the door, just to remind him who was in charge. Todd grabbed the small man’s arm on his way out. The small man stared at Todd, his look piercing. Todd knew enough not touch him, but he didn’t care. He knew what was being asked of him was illegal. He just needed to know how illegal.

“Will I find drugs in that car?” Todd demanded.

The linebackers stiffened. The small man nodded at his arm. Todd released his grasp.

“Unfortunately, you don’t have a choice, Todd,” the small man said, his tone barbed. “Be at the Oakland address at midnight.”

***

Todd had to resort to public transportation to get him into San Francisco, seeing as the linebackers had finished off the Accord. He was looking at least at a few thousand to replace the tires and windshield. It would be cheaper to get another car.

A combination of BART, MUNI, and good old-fashioned walking brought him out on the corner of Bush and Powell. Midblock on Bush, Todd found Denko’s, which seemed classy and unique for the city in that it had its own parking lot. Strictly, it wasn’t a parking lot. To the right
of the restaurant was a dead-end alley, which had been cordoned off with gates to make a parking lot watched over by two valets. They looked as if they were relations of the small man’s linebackers. Obviously, the small man was making Todd work hard to make up for his screwup. It wasn’t going to be easy, but it was doable.

He breezed on by the restaurant, counting his steps, then turned right at the next block onto Powell. He turned right at the next cross street and counted his steps again. When he counted eighty-seven, he stopped in front of a narrow apartment block, which looked squeezed by its neighbors. The door was locked, but there was a buzzer entry system. Todd pressed the first one his finger fell on.

“Yes,” a woman answered.

“Pizza delivery,” Todd said.

“We didn’t order any pizza,” she barked.

“Sorry, is this seven A?”

“No, eight A, moron.”

“Sorry. Can you buzz me in?”

She growled but the door clicked.

Todd let himself in and bounded up the first flight of stairs. The good news, as he had hoped, was that the landing window opened out onto the restaurant’s alley parking lot. The bad news was that there were no fire escapes. They were all on the front of the building. He flicked the safety latches and slid the window open. Surprisingly, it opened with ease.

One of the valets trotted up the alley to collect a Range Rover. Todd waited until the SUV and owner were reunited, then he climbed onto the ledge and jumped out. He connected hard with the ground. Electricity crackled through his legs, intensifying in his groin. He bit back a scream and crumpled onto his knees. Too busy hustling for a tip, the valets didn’t notice him. Todd crawled behind the nearest car to survey the lot.

Todd had a new problem. There were two black Jags in the parking lot, one an XK8, the other an S-Type. The small man had told him to pick up a black Jag, but he hadn’t told him the model or license number. He fumbled in his pocket for the keys. He aimed the remote in the direction of both cars and pressed the unlock button. The S-Type chirped and blinked its lights. The valets whipped around at the noise. Todd burst out of the shadows, charging for the Jag. The
valets did likewise. Todd was lucky on two counts. The valets were big, but not fast, and he was closer.

He reached the car first, dived in front of the wheel, and gunned the engine, all before the valets were halfway to him. He cranked the steering and hit the gas. The Jag leaped forward, smearing its fender across the back of a Lincoln Navigator, setting off its alarm. The Jag bounced off another car before he gained control.

One of the valets raced back to the gates while the other blocked the alley with his body. He made himself wide by crouching and splaying out his arms. If they were playing chicken, Todd knew he had the upper hand and floored the gas.

“Time to jump, buddy,” Todd said, grinning.

Todd’s grin slipped when he realized the second before he hit the guy that the guy wasn’t going anywhere. He smashed into the windshield and disappeared over the roof.

The remaining valet had closed the gates but hadn’t locked them, and Todd blasted them open. They slammed back against the side of the restaurant, busting its neon sign. Todd jumped on the brakes to prevent the Jag from slamming into the apartment block opposite. Traffic slithered to a screaming halt and he floored the gas pedal, fishtailing down the street and jumping the first red light he hit.

His heart out-revved the Jag. Adrenaline raced through his veins, and sweat poured off his face. Heading toward the Bay Bridge, his pipe-wrench grip on the steering wheel softened and his foot eased off the gas.

He laughed. His panic and fear changed into exhilaration and excitement. The crime-fueled buzz was hard to deny. He liked being a bad guy. It beat stacking boxes.

***

The drop-off point was in Oakland’s warehouse district, near the rejuvenated Jack London Square, but in the run-down part of the neighborhood. Todd pulled up in front of a whitewashed building that was in desperate need of a fresh coat. The building had an address, but no sign.

Todd got out of the Jag and banged on the roll-up door. While he was still banging, the door retracted. He hopped back into the Jag and drove the car in.

The warehouse’s interior was in marginally better condition than the exterior, but was well lit. The place was barren, except for a scattered collection of Snap-On tool chests and half a dozen car lifts. Cars Todd couldn’t dream of owning occupied the lifts. Ignoring the others, the
Maserati and Lamborghini alone cost more than he’d earn in the next decade. The small man stood in the middle of the warehouse floor with the familiar linebackers and a few new friends. Todd parked and got out.

“Christ! What the hell have you been up to?” The small man examined the busted headlight and scarred paintwork. “Do you do this to all the cars around you, or just mine?”

The roll-up door closed with a bang. The noise echoed off the walls.

“It wasn’t easy getting the car out. You didn’t say anything about stealing it.”

“I didn’t say anything about smashing it up either. Or were you just trying to impress me?”

“Sorry.” Todd didn’t know what else to say.

The small man waved the issue aside. “Don’t worry, I just wanted the car back. The condition is unimportant.”

“Are we even now? Can I go?” Todd sounded tired, more tired than he felt.

“Not yet.” The small man patted Todd on the shoulder. “You’re close. There’s just one more thing before we’re squared away. Reuben, give him the keys.”

The Hispanic linebacker tossed a set of keys to Todd, and he caught them.

“Those fit that Lexus over there. Which I want you to drive to Dallas.”

“Texas?”

“The one and only. Don’t look so worried. This job is a lot easier than the last one. All you have to do is drop it off at Ruskin’s, a dealership. Then you’re done and our business is concluded.”

“That’s a good two-day drive. I can’t just drop everything. I have a job.”

The small man’s irritation evaporated his grin. He yanked out a gun and jammed it in Todd’s face. “You drive or you die. Your choice. You’ve cost me a lot of money and aggravation, and I think I’ve been damn charitable giving you this chance to redeem yourself. So what’s it going to be?” He snapped the safety off the pistol.

“Drive,” Todd managed.

A minute later, he was on the road, Texas bound. The small man had really screwed him this time, telling him he had to leave immediately—no time to pack any clothes or leave a message for his boss. He couldn’t blame the small man too much. If he’d done the right thing in the first place, he wouldn’t be on I-580 now.

“You’re a dumb, dumb man, Todd,” he said to himself and turned the radio up.

At the Arizona state line, he pulled over and slept in the car. Deep into New Mexico, as evening descended, his funk finally got to him. He could taste his stale breath, and his BO was ripe. He’d washed up as best he could in a gas station restroom, but his clothes were rancid with dried sweat. He pulled off at the next town and raided the first Walmart for a change of undershorts and a couple of T-shirts. He changed into his fresh clothes in a restroom, dumping the dirty ones in the trash. He crossed the Texas state line in good spirits and smelling fresh, although his stink seemed to have impregnated the Lexus’s interior.

“Damn it,” he groaned.

He hadn’t seen them, not that he’d been keeping an eye out. He thought he’d been playing it safe, keeping to the speed limit and using his turn signals. But the red and blue light bathing the Lexus’s interior said otherwise. He eased the sedan off I-40 and onto the shoulder.

The state troopers wandered up behind him, but only one came up to Todd. The other lagged at the rear of the Lexus, examining the car’s rear with some well-practiced flashlight work. Todd powered down the window.

“Is this your vehicle, sir?”

“No, I’m just delivering it.”

“Where to?”

“Ruskin’s in Dallas. It’s a dealership.”

“And where’s it coming from?”

Todd didn’t have an answer. He hadn’t thought to check what the registration documentation said. Sweat appeared on his forehead and under his arms. “Another dealership,” he ventured.

“Then where are your dealership tags?”

“I don’t know. It’s my first job. They didn’t say anything, and I didn’t know I needed them.”

The trooper didn’t look impressed. “Well, you do.”

“Oh.” Todd tried to sound as innocent as he could.

“License and registration, please, sir.”

Todd leaned across and popped the glove box open. His breath caught in his throat when a nickel-plated .357 fell out.

“Don’t move a muscle, son,” the trooper said and pressed his gun into the back of Todd’s head. Gun drawn, the trooper’s partner opened the passenger door and snatched up the fallen .357. “Nice and easy now, climb out of the vehicle.”

Todd did as he was told and, without being asked, interlaced his fingers behind his head. The trooper escorted him to the front of the Lexus and cuffed him, while the trooper’s partner searched the car. A couple of passing vehicles slowed to get a better look at the theatrics.

“Why are you carrying a concealed weapon?”

“I didn’t know I was.”

“Do you have a license for the weapon?”

“Lyle,” the trooper’s partner called. “You’d better take a look at this.”

Trooper Lyle scowled at Todd. Todd shrugged. The trooper snatched Todd’s bicep and marched him over to the passenger side of the car. Lyle’s partner had the door panel in his hands. Taped to the inside were clear packets filled with a white powder. No one needed to explain what it was.

“The panel was loose. It fell off when I touched it.”

“Taking it to a dealership, were you?” Lyle said with disgust.

“I don’t think this is all of it,” Lyle’s partner said. “This backseat is padded, but I wouldn’t want to sit on it.” He banged the seat with his fist. His hand left no indentation.

“You’ve got some explaining to do,” Lyle said.

A cell phone rang. The troopers looked at each other and shook their heads.

“Have you got a cell phone, buddy?” Lyle’s partner asked.

Todd shook his head.

“It’s coming from there.” Lyle pointed at the trunk.

Lyle tugged Todd back from the car. Lyle’s partner chased around to the rear of the Lexus and popped the trunk. “You’d better take a look at this,” he said.

Lyle glared at Todd. A hot sweat broke out over him as Lyle dragged him to the trunk.

Shrink-wrapped in plastic was the contorted shape of a man. The suffocating plastic sucked into his open, screaming mouth, and a cell phone blinked, sticking out of his shirt pocket. Todd recognized the dead man from his picture in the newspaper. He was the Porsche owner the cops had picked up.

Todd sighed. He didn’t have to ask who would be on the other end of the phone. The small man was at the root of this. He’d set him up. Stealing the Jag must have just been a way to keep Todd busy and buy him time to take care of the Porsche owner after he bailed him out. The cops
would know the Porsche owner was linked to the small man, and the small man couldn’t have a loose end like that. He needed someone to do the trimming, so why not let Todd be his scissors?

“Son,” Lyle said without a hint of pleasure, “you are royally screwed.”

“I
’m going to make dinner for Toby,” Barnett announced to Mike.

“What, Corn Flakes on toast?” Mike joked.

“No, I can cook. Like He-Man, I have the power.”

Mike’s smile faded. He checked over his shoulder and saw Toby sitting at a table by himself. Toby always sat alone during breaks between lectures. He clutched a can of Coke and stared at the canteen table. His gaze threatened to burn a hole clear through.

“Why? You’re not even friends,” Mike asked.

“Why not? Doesn’t he look like he needs cheering up? A good meal would be appreciated, I’m sure.”

It didn’t make sense to Mike. Both Barnett and Toby were intelligent, but personality-wise, they were at extreme ends of the scale. Barnett was bold and reckless, whereas Toby was so introverted he seemed on the verge of imploding. Toby’s introversion probably had a lot to do with his severe acne. An overwhelming number of angry, pus-filled pimples distorted his face, and they didn’t end there. Sores littered his upper arms and blighted his neck—his whole body had to be pock-ridden. His paper-white skin and red hair only made his sores stand out more. The stench of prescription acne medication permanently surrounded him.