Bullets Are My Business (9781101616413) (9 page)

Just before Afternoon Rush Hour

On my way to the airport, I can't help but keep a constant eye on my rearview mirror. Every time I pass a tollbooth, all I can think about is
The Godfather.
Every driver that looks at me has me on their list. Every car that rides too close to my bumper is seconds away from plugging me. I take a deep drink from my flask. Veronica was right. I am jumpy. I gotta be cool. It's only a little while longer. Then I'm in the clear and things will be right as rain again. Well, as right as they ever were.

My phone rings. I pick it up. It's Megan.

“When are you going to be home?” We've apparently passed the point of salutations. I rub my eyes with my free hand. I haven't told Megan what's going on. She knows enough about me already. I have to keep some things to myself.

“I'm not sure.”

“Call me when you get in. I want to see you tonight.”

“I will.”

“You promise?” she asks. Here's where the trouble comes in paradise. She's asking too many damned questions. I've got other shit on my mind. I've only just gotten into something with Megan and already she's overly needy.

“Yeah,” I tell her, trying to mask the irritation in my voice.

“Because you didn't call me when you got home last night.” I can almost see her pouting face as she says this. I try telling myself that I'm irritated because of the business I have to attend to, but I get the feeling that she's always been like this. I'd been too busy enjoying her company to realize it.

“I know, I got busy.”

Busy preparing for the worst. I bite my tongue so I don't finish that thought.

“I understand,” Megan tells me. She sounds sincere, but I can't see how she can even remotely comprehend what I'm dealing with. She sighs. “Just promise me that you'll call when you get home.”

“I promise.” I can hear her smile on the other end of the line. She's definitely getting clingy. I don't know how I feel about that. A clingy girl is a girl who asks too many questions. A girl that asks too many questions is bad for business. We say our good-byes as I turn into the airport and start looking for a place to park.

“Never fails,” I mutter. The parking lot is jam packed. Everybody and their uncle appears to be here this morning. If anyone wanted to pop me, this would be the prime time. And the prime locale. It would be a quick and easy side-step onto a plane going anywhere. I look around the lot at the people walking to and from their cars. The cross section of people is unbelievable. Everyone from the yuppie in the six-hundred-dollar suit on his cell phone trying to close some important business deal to the mullet head yelling at his girlfriend for not packing his toothbrush. Any one of them could be a hired party waiting for me. Fuck it. I can't focus on that right now. I can't worry about finding trouble. It's bound to find me.

I just gotta find a place to park so I don't miss the flight.

A Few Minutes Later

Once I get through the automatic doors that lead into the terminal, I realize that the parking lot was a picnic compared to the circus inside. The main difference between the two is that, on the interior, this crowd also consists of cops. I wish I didn't have to carry my piece with me. I could get sent away for a while, a long while, if I get tagged with a gun. On the flip side to the coin, I could spend eternity in a box if I'm caught without it.

Walking through the terminal, the sea of people makes me claustrophobic. They're coming out of the woodwork, running into me, touching me. It's starting to make me nauseous. With the claustrophobia comes paranoia. I can't seem to control it as my eyes start scanning the room for danger. I get the feeling something terrible is about to happen. Sometimes it seems that bad news is the only kind of news I'm prepared to hear. Especially in light of recent events. This whole ordeal has thrown me for a loop.

That's when I see the Asian guy watching me.

Right off the bat I can tell that he's been trailing me. I can see it in the way he's standing so obviously nonchalantly, just on the edge of the crowd of travelers. Leaning against a garbage can, magazine held in his hand, no luggage, no one around him. It's almost as though everyone subconsciously knows that he's dangerous, so they give him a wide berth as they pass. I have to play it cool. I can't let him see that I notice him. If I do, he might get spooked and run. Or he might act without thinking. If he's a professional, he won't, but I don't know him from Adam. For all I know, he's just a regular, run–of-the-mill asshole who's working for someone. I have to keep moving, looking around the terminal, but, still, I have to keep my attention on him. If I let him slip from my sight, it might be the end of me. That's the way these things go down. The second I let my guard down at all, he'll take notice, and like a cobra, he'll strike. Dammit. I hate my co-workers.

He looks like a tough guy. Everyone in the Asian racket is. None of them look like they could do much harm. That's where the problem lies. They're the literal snakes in the grass of this business. Stone cold and willing to do anything. I worked with an Asian once. I saw things that made my stomach churn, stuff I can't even describe. Don't get me wrong, he was a great worker. Loyal to a fault, if you ask me. I just don't ever want to be on the receiving end of that. From the corner of my periphery, I can see that this one's moving now. He's following me, pretending he's not. Gotta keep my eyes on him. Can't let him slink away.

Then an open palm slaps me on the back of the head.

I wheel around, my hand moving for my sidearm, when my eyes fall on Chenille, standing with an eyebrow cocked. She crosses her arms and taps her foot. We stand staring at each other for a few moments.

“You're starting to slip in your old age, Levi,” Chenille states with a sigh of discontent. I force a smile and nod. I scan the premises. The Asian is gone. Damn. I had a feeling he was going to be fast, but I never guessed he was going to be that fast. Shit. Now we gotta jet, double time.

“Where are your bags?” I ask Chenille.

She opens her arms out to me. “What? No hug?” she asks. Even with all the shit going on, I can't help but smile. I give her a hug.

“Good to see you,” I say. “Where are your bags?”

“Seriously, Levi,” she scoffs, patting the carry-on that she has slung over her shoulder, “you'd think there would be some sort of sibling intuition here. I travel light.”

I nod again, and without another word, I move toward the door, keeping my eyes constantly moving around me, waiting for a strike. Chenille follows close behind.

“How are things?” she asks. I haven't filled her in on what's been going on. I figured that the phone was not the correct medium for that. I can tell by her voice that she can sense something is awry, but she's trying to keep things cool. She's taking in the surroundings, feeling out the playing field. I respect that, mostly because I know that two sets of eyes work better than one.

“Every day aboveground is a good one,” I say over my shoulder as we exit the terminal.

Thirty Minutes Away from the Airport

“You have no idea why you're being targeted?”

I shake my head as I check my blind spots and merge into the left lane. “That's why I called on you. I think I may be in need of an outsider opinion. A fresh set of eyes.”

Chenille taps her fingers on the armrest. “I haven't done any small town detective work in a while. I'm used to bigger things now.”

I crack a smile. “Yeah, how is the terrorist racket these days?”

Chenille shoots me a glare. “I'm not a terrorist. I'm on a mission to save U.S. citizens from the clutches of the corporate hogs that are taking over the world.”

“So you're more like an überviolent hippie?”

“You're hilarious, asshole.”

I glance over at my kid sister, seated in the passenger seat, tapping her fingers on the door handle and watching the scenery fly by. I never would've pegged Chenille as one to get into this life. Not saying that I was the prime candidate, but Chenille's career choice came right out of left field. She was always on the up and up, the goody-two-shoes type. Straight A's in school, always made the dean's list, stayed home on Saturday nights to study. She always stayed out of trouble.

I had long since moved out by the time she graduated high school, but the summer after her graduation, I noticed that she had gotten rid of her old crowd and had started hanging around with a new crew. At first they all seemed like a ragtag bunch of hippies, out to better the world, peace, love, and understanding. Whatever. Not my bag, but I could tolerate them when our paths crossed. I just made sure that our paths didn't cross all that often.

At the end of the summer, Chenille headed off to school on the East Coast. NYU with a full academic ride. Like I said, she was a smart kid. I was already on my own at this point, so, though money was tight, I told her to let me know if she got into a bind. She said that she would.

We didn't really get a chance to talk much her first few semesters there. I was busy with my work and I figured that she was busy with school. She wasn't.

It was spring when the firebombings started out East. It started with corporate-run coffeehouses. Then the big chain bookstores and conglomerate supermarkets started getting hit. It was always the stores on the outskirts of New York and the bombings always took place after hours when no one was around. Then the bombings started moving closer to the center of town. The heart of corporate headquarters.

I didn't really give much thought to it at that point. That's when the call came in.

I was on my way to do a job. Take a guy out, make it quick and easy, and collect my dough. Simple job that would only take ten minutes tops. Just before I reached the guy's office, my cell rang. I picked it up.

It was Chenille. She started off by telling me she had gotten herself into a bind. I pulled my car over and fired up a cigarette as she filled me in on the details. She had been going to rallies with some extremist group trying to get back to the roots of the country. They had been staging peaceful protests, and somewhere along the line, things had escalated. She discussed the bombings in complete detail, not showing remorse for her actions, only regretting the fact that she had come up against some heat. Turns out that the corporate assholes were connected with some pretty bad people.

I held back from biting Chenille's head off. The way I saw it, there would be more than enough time for that later. I told her to sit tight and I was going to be on the next plane to New York and hung up.

Hours later, I touched down at La Guardia. Chenille knew who I had to talk to, so I paid them a visit. I wasn't sure what to expect when I arrived, but once I beat a couple of enforcers into the dirt and threatened to cut off the noses of a few CEOs, it was pretty easy to rectify the situation. The dogs were called off and things were ready to go back to normal. Including Chenille. Getting her back in line was my highest priority. I hailed a cab to her apartment and was already fuming before I even got to her door.

I didn't even give her a chance to speak before I laid into her, asking her what the fuck she thought she was doing. Chenille wasn't going to take my irritation laying down. She never did. Regardless if she knows she's wrong or not she'd argue with me to the death.

She rambled on about trying to better the world with her cause. I found it all ridiculous and she started working the ribs, asking me what cause I was fighting for. I answered her honestly, telling her I was only after the cold, hard dollar bill and living to see another day. Truth be told, our whole argument was ridiculous. We spoke in circles and neither one of us was willing to give in.

In the end, Chenille refused to walk away from her post and I could do nothing to sway her otherwise. In all honesty, it would've been hypocritical for me to tell her that she had to leave the life. We agreed to disagree and, just like that, Chenille was something of a co-worker.

“Listen, Levi,” Chenille growls through gritted teeth, “I'm here to help you in any way that I can, but I gotta know the skinny on what's been going on.”

“Kid, I told you all I know,” I tell her, “but I'll run through it again if you think it'll help. Try to keep up. I came home, I found a letter on my stairs, I was attacked, I got some information from one of the attackers, I proceeded to investigate, I was attacked again and almost killed, and I had a sit-down with a woman who knows some stuff, but I didn't have time to talk to her because there was an ambush waiting to happen. That's where you come in.” I take out a cigarette and light it, hoping that the smoke will wash away all of these problems. I take a deep drag and hold it, allowing it to nestle in my lungs for a moment. When I exhale, my problems are still here. Chenille coughs.

“Don't fucking start that,” I warn her.

She raises her hands defensively. “Start what?”

“Don't start with the coughing bullshit,” I tell her. “You don't need to pretend to cough just because you saw me light this.”

“For your information, smart guy, I coughed because I had something in my throat,” Chenille informs me. I'm hoping it will end there, wrapped up nicely with a bow on it, but I know my sister well enough to know definitively that it won't. I give her a whole three seconds before she starts up again. Three . . . two . . .

“But even so,” she continues, right on cue, “I don't particularly enjoy breathing in your secondhand smoke.” Bingo.

“Would you prefer to breathe in someone else's smoke?” I ask, taking a drag off of the cigarette.

She shakes her head. “No. I would prefer to keep my lungs free from hazard.”

“Well, sis, than you better hop the next flight off the fucking planet.”

Chenille seems offended by this. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

In a way, it's nice to know that some things never change. It would be a great weight off my shoulders if one of the things that never changed was my own mortality, but I suppose I should be content with the fact that sibling bickering is the eternal rock of ages.

“Nothing. Forget I said anything,” I say, trying to steer clear of an all-out pissing match. But I know in my heart that it's far too late for that. Chenille has the same game face that I remember vividly from our childhood. She's ready to argue. She's ready for blood.

“No,” she presses, “what the hell does that mean?”

“Seriously, just forget it.”

“No, answer the question.”

“Jesus,” I mutter, wishing I hadn't said anything to begin with. “Fine. My point was that, even if I didn't light up this butt, you would've still been breathing bad air. We're on the expressway. The noxious gas released from these cars is awful and it's making its way right into your lungs. At least my chemically enhanced air relaxes me. It serves a purpose.”

“Apparently not enough,” she says, winding down her window. “Otherwise you would've wound up as an accountant.”

“In your line of work, I figured that you would've supported constitutional rights,” I throw back at her. “Maybe you are a fucking commie.”

She glares at me menacingly. “What?”

“I'm just acting on my unalienable right to the pursuit of happiness,” I explain to her, smoking the cigarette faster. “I think I'm entitled to this brief puff of happiness. If I didn't have this, then I would be a madman.”

“I didn't ask you to put it out, did I?” she asks. “I was just pointing out that I don't want to die a slow and painful death because of your ‘pursuit of happiness.'” This could go on for days, so instead of listening to her complain, I take one final puff of the cigarette and toss it out the window. I watch in the rearview mirror as it hits the ground and is crushed under the wheels of a motorcycle two cars behind us.

“There,” I grumble, “you better now?”

“Yes,” she states, drawing in a deep breath. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

“Good.” Now maybe we can drop this ridiculousness. Our exit is coming up. As I merge into the right lane, I check my rearview. I see the motorcyclist merge as well. The driver is still two cars behind us. I want to pass it off as nothing but mere coincidence, but I can't take any chances. I glance at the green sign we're passing. Three miles until our exit. That should give me just enough time to lose this guy if need be. I merge back into the left lane and then quickly into the far lane beyond that. The car behind me lays on its horn. I flip him the bird but quickly push it out of my mind. My eyes return to the rearview. This is a test of the emergency broadcast system, this is only a . . . The cyclist doesn't skip a beat. He's behind me again. Shit. That's what I was afraid of. Now I know I have a tail. I step on the accelerator.

“Levi, the exit is coming up.” It's amazing how fast the miles go when you're tooling down the expressway. I can see the exit now. We're coming up on it fast. The cyclist is still a few cars behind. He's gonna be a tough one to lose. I watch the speedometer as it creeps up toward the triple digits.

“You gotta get in the right lane or you're gonna miss it.”

“I know, kid, but I gotta do this properly,” I tell Chenille. Her intuition kicks in immediately and she remembers that this isn't a cruise ship. She's here on business and not for pleasure.

“How far back?” she asks, getting on the clock. I don't have time to fill her in. Not if I'm going to make the exit.

“Just make sure you're buckled in,” I order. She pulls the seat belt as I slam on the brakes. The Lincoln's tires screech like a wounded animal and the cars behind me slam on their brakes in turn. I spin the wheel to the right and hit the gas. The motorcycle can't stop fast enough. I watch as he slams into the trunk of the Mercedes in front of him. My car lurches sickeningly across the lanes of traffic. Some asshole in a sports car clips my bumper, narrowly missing a full-blown accident. The cyclist bounces over the top of the stopped car, landing on the hood and sliding from view. The other cars swerve to avoid any sort of collision. Some make it, some don't. Car horns sound all around me. I grit my teeth and white-knuckle the wheel. I manage to make the exit. I stop at the stoplight and hand a right. Homeward bound and without the tail.

My heart is thumping like a drum kit. I pull out a cigarette. “I wish he wasn't wearing a helmet.” I light up the smoke and crack a smile. Chenille coughs.

I wish I could shoot her.