Never Play Another Man's Game (16 page)

T
he street out front of Sully's Tavern was full of souped-up imports. Each car had bright paint jobs, spoilers, custom rims, and fat mufflers. There was also a black Porsche
SUV
parked directly in front of the door to the bar. I found a spot on a side street and got out of the car with a duffel over my shoulder. I walked into the bar and saw that business should have been good — if anyone inside was drinking. Twelve bar stools all had asses on them. The men on the seats were closer to boys than adults. Each had spiked hair. Some accentuated it with a rat-tail, mullet, or lines shaved into the sides of their heads. Behind the bar, I saw Steve in his T-shirt reading the paper. His hair hung down over his face and he had to tilt his head to see me in the doorway. He nodded at me and went back to reading.

At a table in the corner sat three men. One was huge — Chinese, with a Bruce Lee haircut and an Arnold Schwarzenegger physique. Beside him was a short, fat man in a dark suit. He bore a resemblance to Buddha, only the chubby deity didn't sport six inches of wispy chin hair, and none of the pictures I saw ever portrayed Buddha with brown teeth. Beside the fat man sat David. He was pale, sweaty, and hunched over.

“This him?”

David nodded and the fat man took a drag on a cigarette. He motioned for me to come over as he let the smoke slowly pour out of his mouth and over his wrecked teeth. In front of the man were two Taco Bell bags. The paper bags were greasy and wrinkled. The fat man rested his cigarette on the plastic lid of his cup and took a bite out of a fat burrito stuffed with what looked to be like a whole other meal as I crossed the room. Crumbs and meat showered his suit and he brushed them away with a hand that resembled an overinflated rubber glove.

I got to the table and the muscular guy got up. He had a sawed-off shotgun in his hands. The shotgun was pointed at my stomach.

“You Wilson?” The fat man asked after a swallow.

I nodded. “You Yang Tam?”

He took a drag on the cigarette and let the smoke roll out like fog over water. “Who I am is the man you stole a lot of money from.” He bit into the burrito again and more food splashed his shirt.

“Money wasn't his to give,” I said.

Yang laughed. He looked like Buddha again for a second until I noticed his eyes. The cold, hard black dots set inside the fat face made him look nothing like the jolly deity. “Doesn't matter where he got it. The money was mine the second it touched my hand. And the second it left my hand, it was stolen — from me.”

Yang ate the rest of the thing in his hand in one bite. Nothing fell onto his suit this time. He then dug into the second bag and pulled out something else wrapped in paper. Yang unfolded the paper and said, “You see this burrito? I only bought one because I'm watching my weight, but I missed breakfast this morning because, well you know why, and I'm still hungry. This burrito was Arthur's.” Yang gestured towards the muscular man beside him, using the Mexican food as a pointer. “You think Arthur is going to take it back from me? It wasn't mine. I had no right to it. You think he's going to reach over the table and take it right out from under my nose?” He looked at Arthur. “Would you even think about touching it?”

Arthur shook his head.

“Why is that, Arthur?”

“Because you'd kill me.”

“I would fucking kill you if you touched
my
Taco Bell.” Yang put down the food and started stroking his sparse chin hair without wiping his greasy fingers first. With his other hand, he lifted the cigarette to his mouth and took a long drag. He spoke through the smoke. “Think about that. Arthur's been with me for years. I fucking love Arthur, and I would kill him dead over ninety-nine cents of shitty Mexican food. Think about where you are in this equation. I don't know you, you killed three of my guys, and you stole the equivalent of two hundred thousand burritos from me. Two hundred thousand!” Yang slapped the fast food bag away and flicked his cigarette at me. The butt sparked against my coat and fell to the floor. I noticed in my peripheral vision that everyone at the bar had swivelled on their stools so that they could look at me.

“Maybe less money for burritos isn't such a bad thing.”

The air went still in the room as everyone searched for the source of the jab. It had come from behind me, but I didn't turn my head — I was glued to the shotgun aimed at my guts. At this range, Arthur could saw me in half if he moved his finger just half an inch. His eyes were on whoever was behind me, but the gun was still looking right at my waist and his finger was still on the trigger.

The voice kept talking. “I mean seriously, you smoke and you eat that shit. You have to see the writing on the wall. How long do you expect to live?”

“Longer than you,” Yang said.

The threat was serious, but the voice didn't quiver — there was only a short bark of laughter. “Heh, good one. Bartender, grab me a beer. A Rickards, if you got it.”

I saw Steve look up over his paper at the man. Steve nodded like it was just a regular night, took his time folding the paper, and bent to get a bottle from the fridge under the bar. He put the beer on the counter and I finally got a chance to see who had come into the bar. The beer was picked up by a man in his fifties with short brown hair that had gone grey at the temples. He had a handlebar moustache that had started to go white under his nose and a scar on his neck running parallel with his jaw. It looked like someone had once tried to cut the man's throat. He was short, maybe five-five, and dressed in black jeans and a black trench coat over a black sweater. The man took the beer off the bar and walked away from the twelve gangsters on the stools. None of the triad tried to stop him — they were soldiers, and soldiers waited for orders.

Yang put another cigarette into his mouth and leaned back in his chair. Arthur used his left hand to go into his pocket — the right kept the shotgun on me. I watched the gun and how Arthur moved. Everything he did was burned into my brain. With one hand, he flicked the silver Zippo lighter open and thumbed a flame to life. He took his eyes off me just long enough to make sure the flame was close enough to his boss for him to light the cigarette without moving his fat neck. Yang touched the fire and Arthur immediately swung his head back to check my position. If someone had used my Before and After picture as a cereal box game of Spot the Difference, it would have taken most kids an hour to see the slight change. My hand was closer to my belt and the gun tucked underneath. Arthur put the lighter away and put his left hand back on the gun.

The short man walked up to our table and stood to my right. “Your cholesterol alone must be high triple digits. You ever get it checked, tubby?”

I had never laid eyes on the mouthy little prick before, but I had no doubt about who he was — after all, I was the one who had called him.

Yang looked around the room like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. “I don't give a shit about cholesterol. I care about getting what I want.”

“Obviously,” the little man said.

“Who the fuck are you, midget?”

The short man took a pull on his beer. “Midget? I bet I'm at least your height. How tall are you?”

“Five seven,” Yang said.

“Maybe five seven around the middle. No way you're that tall. Let's measure back to back.”

Yang almost jumped out of his chair. “Motherfucker, you are about to have the worst night of your life.”

The short man pulled a chair away from another table and sat down beside me. “Maybe,” he said, “but first, I want to hear more of this burrito story. So you stole the big man's food because you were still hungry, shocker, and he won't take it back because you'd kill him if he tried.”

Yang said, “I think I can show you what I mean.”

“In a second. Just let me ask you one thing. Would you still want the burrito if Arthur had taken it from someone else?”

“Doesn't matter who it belonged to. It's in front of me.”

“I'm not questioning the physical location of the food. I'm asking you if you'd still want it if it were, say, God's burrito.”

“God's burrito?”

The little man nodded and drank some more beer. “Would you still want to eat the burrito you stole from your man here if you found out that he swiped it from God?”

“Are you fucking drunk, little man? God's burrito.” Yang laughed and a second later, all of his minions at the bar joined in. It was a disturbing sight.

When the laughter died, the little man said, “I'm not drunk, and I don't mean Jesus. I mean Old Testament God. The kind of God who would rain down fire, turn rivers to blood, the kind who would kill your firstborn just to ruin your day.”

“You threatening me?”

A couple of the triads got off their stools.

“No, I'm asking you if you'd still eat the burrito.”

“This is pointless.”

The little man drained the beer and threw the bottle across the room. The glass shattered on the opposite wall and rained jagged amber on the floor. “It's very much on point because that money belonged to someone else before you put your fat greasy hands on it. That money was the property of someone who would have no problem killing every living thing in this room.”

“So you're God?” Yang said.

“No, not God, just a man who doesn't appreciate being fucked with and —”

The glasses behind the bar started to vibrate, producing a sound like a wind chime in a breeze. The room grew loud as engines roared on the street. It was the sound of machinery engineered to produce nothing but horsepower and noise. The noise grew louder as dark shapes raced past on the sidewalk outside the front window. The noise reached a deafening cacophony before it died in an instant.

“Just a man,” Roland said, “a man who appreciates a little old-school biblical fire, blood, and death.”

T
he door to the bar opened and the Forty Thieves walked in. It was as though someone had wheeled a machine to the door that spit angry men in various sizes down a conveyor belt and into the room. Each unshaven, leather-clad biker who stepped into the bar had the same hard eyes I had seen on muzzled dogs waiting to be let out of their cages to fight for money. Soon every triad had a friend wearing a patch.

“'Nother beer,” Roland “The Big Dawg” Simcoe said. I bet if anyone found the Big Dawg name funny, they kept it to themselves.

One of the bikers took a beer from Steve, who actually sighed when he had to put down his paper, and walked it to Roland.

“Who are you?” Yang asked.

“You can think of me as the guy you stole the burrito from.”

Yang looked at me.

“Read the jackets,” I said.

I watched the fat man look from jacket to jacket. The patch showing a skeletal hand holding a wad of cash was enough for anyone to realize who they were talking to.

“So the money David —”

“Shhh, not yet,” Roland said. “We're still waiting for someone.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes until the door opened again. Five more men came in from the cold. The man second from the end was helped inside; his wheelchair had trouble with the steps. D.B. rolled towards the table trailed by two pit bulls. Even without the use of his legs, D.B. was still imposing. The other four bikers fanned out and each went to a corner of the bar. The dogs sauntered over to Roland and sat beside him. D.B. caught up a second later.

“Hey, Rick,” he said, nodding in David's direction. You had to know D.B. to hear the hate in the greeting.

I shook my head. “It's David.”

“No shit? Ruby really his mom?”

“She was.”

D.B.'s eyebrow raised. He didn't miss the word
was
.

“That the money?” D.B. asked.

“It's my money,” Yang barked.

“So you'd eat God's burrito then?” Roland asked.

“You're not God, you're a fucking biker.”

Something in Roland's body language set the dogs on edge. They started growling at Yang. The fat triad underboss flicked his cigarette at the dog on Roland's right. The muscular pit bull yelped while the other dog took off around the table en route to Yang's neck. Arthur moved the shotgun away from my stomach and tracked the dog. When it came all the way around the table, it would get a nasty surprise. The dog charging at Yang sparked a tidal wave of guns being drawn. Triads pulled guns and the bikers did the same. The guns were aimed everywhere because no direction was safe. It would only take one shot to set everyone off.

“Heel!” Roland yelled.

The dog never came around the table, and the shot never came. The pit bull skidded to a stop and then slunk back to its master. Arthur started to bring the shotgun back towards me, but suddenly realized that it was a terrible idea. He saw the grin on my face and then he saw the gun in my hand.

“Easy with the shotgun, muscles.”

“He's a slippery one,” Roland said to D.B.

“I tol' ya.”

“If everyone's going to jump in the pool, I might as well get wet,” I said.

Arthur had the sawed-off halfway towards me and he suddenly seemed unsure about where to point it. Finally, he chose a target that wasn't aiming anything at him. He put both barrels towards D.B.

“Aim at the gimp. That's ballsy,” D.B. said.

Arthur just shrugged.

“What you did there, flicking your smoke at the dog, that says a lot about you,” Roland said.

“That so?” Yang asked.

“It's the same kind of stupid thinking that must have been at work when your boy there shot up one of my people and stole that money.” Roland gestured to the duffel bag that was still on my shoulder. I wished I had had a chance to put it down when I came in; the strap was digging in something fierce.

Yang flashed a look at David, who was one of the few people left in the bar without a gun in his hand. David wiped his forehead and forced out a weak cough.

“That little shit owed me money. He brought me money. I didn't ask where it came from because I don't care.”

“Like the burrito,” Roland said.

“Exactly.”

“'Cept it ain't a fuckin' burrito, is it? It's money that belongs to us. Money your boy spilled Thieves' blood to get.”

“He isn't my boy.”

“Not how it looks from this angle.”

“Know how I see it?” Yang asked.

The two of them were inching closer and closer to sparking an explosion, and I didn't want to be in the middle of everything when the bomb went off.

“This bag is getting heavy,” I said. Mentioning the bag shut everyone up. I stepped away from the table and walked to the bar acutely aware that everyone was watching me. Even Steve had glanced up from his paper to look at me. I could swear I saw the bartender chuckle. I kept the gun on Arthur as I completed the arc around the tables to the bar. I shouldered a triad and a biker out of my way and felt the brass rail of the bar touch my back. I used my free hand to lift the shoulder strap over my head and then I let the duffel bag slip to the floor. The bag thumped loud enough to make everyone momentarily forget about the guns pointed at them. I could almost hear their minds trying to guess how much money made a noise like that. My arm tingled with the sudden return of circulation and I had to resist the urge to rub it. I picked up the bag by the handles and, with one sloppy swing, threw it on the bar.

“The burrito is on the bar. Who's going to take it home?”

Both Roland and Yang stared at the bag. Their men alternated looking at the money and their bosses. It was a bad situation — no one wanted to risk saying yes, and no one wanted to be the one to say no. With the attention off me, I walked behind the bar. If bullets started moving, under the counter would be the best place to be. I stood next to Steve and spoke quietly out of the side of my mouth. “Gun in my left pocket.”

Steve slipped the revolver I took off the Russian out of my coat. No one saw him do it — everyone's eyes were glued to the bag and the two men still sitting at the table.

We were all waiting for someone to get up. Instead, D.B. wheeled away from the table towards the money. No one tried to stop him because no one wanted to be the first one shot. In his chair, D.B. was eye level with the bag. I wondered if he would be able to get it off the bar. D.B. reached out and used one hand to lift the duffel. Looking at his face, he could have been lifting a grocery bag. He put the bag on his lap and circled the chair so that he could look at the room.

“I earned this. I bled for it. It's mine.” He reached behind the fat bag and pulled an Uzi from inside his coat. “Take it,” he said to the room, “I fucking dare you.”

A quiet quickly settled in on the bar like a pillow being forced over someone's face.

D.B. broke the silence. “I took three bullets to get this bag. Anyone want to see how far I'll go to keep it?”

No one in the bar moved. Everyone was focussed on Roland and Yang. Yang had a hard choice to make. If he wanted the bag, he had to get up and walk across the room. Yang knew, as I did, that D.B. would dissect him with the Uzi. If he decided to delegate and send one of his men for the bag, there would be two possible outcomes. A gunfight would break out and he would die — he was one of two high-value targets in the room, therefore he had the highest probability of getting shot. Or his men could disobey the order, fearing the bikers more than Yang, which would cause the triad boss to lose face. His men would never respect him after that and he would have to deal with the internal fallout that would follow.

Seconds ticked by and still nothing happened.

“Who goes first, Wilson?” D.B. asked.

I didn't have to think about it. I had already settled on the order. “The bodyguard,” I said.

“Not Yang?”

“You got him, and even if you don't, when the bodyguard goes, the dogs will tear Yang apart.”

“They didn't like the man's cigarette, that's for sure. So Yang gets eaten by dogs, joke sort of writes itself, then what?”

I didn't hesitate because I already knew. “Steve and I kill our way down the bar starting at the end and meeting in the middle.”

“That's twelve people, bro.”

I nodded, not that D.B. could see it. “Six each, but it won't really be that many. Some of your guys will get a few of them. Odds are, it will be more like three each.”

“Steve, you down with this?”

Steve's answer came out as easily as if D.B. had asked him if he liked the colour blue. “Yep.”

The triad all looked nervous — hearing how you're going to die has a way of doing that — but none of them took their guns off their already chosen dance partners.

Yang got out of his chair and I watched as everyone's shoulders tensed. He nodded at Arthur and the big man stood and started moving to the right. Yang walked behind him on his way to the door. The triads all took steps forward; their next steps pivoted them so that they could watch the bikers as they left. They fanned out around the door, protecting Yang, who was still inside the bar, while Arthur checked the street. When the bodyguard came back in and nodded, Yang went to leave.

“He stays,” I said.

Yang got on his tiptoes and leaned to the left so that he could see me. My finger was pointed at David. He was standing just outside the cluster of men like a moon frozen in orbit. His hair was soaked with sweat and he was holding his side like he was protecting a football. Yang smiled; it was all crooked teeth and malevolence.

“You might like it better if I take him,” he said.

“My man is right,” D.B. said, “he should stay with us.”

Yang flicked his hand dismissively, like he was brushing away a fly, and walked out. The triad followed, backing out one after another until Sully's was just a biker bar.

David, rooted in the same spot, looked panicked. I saw his lip quiver as the last triad left the bar. He was alone in front of the door looking at a lot of mean faces. His eyes moved from man to man, finding no safe haven. He finally looked at me and when he saw the grin on my face, he looked to the floor. I saw him wipe at his eyes and then turn around. Ruby's kid crawled into a booth along the back wall and buried his head in the crook of his elbow.

All of the Thieves looked happy except for Roland. He was still sitting in his chair with a scowl on his face. Instead of the Big Dawg, it was D.B. who had stood up to Yang. In a gang where balls and attitude were everything, Roland had just moved down a notch while D.B. climbed over him. But Roland wasn't stupid — he knew the men in the room loved D.B. and that once the story about him facing down the triad got out, and embellished as stories do, he would be worshipped as legend. Eventually, Roland stood up and put on a smile that almost looked genuine. Behind the smile, I knew his mind was dreaming about all of the ways he would pay back D.B. for outshining him.

“Now that the fucking slants are gone, let's get something to drink.” Roland's voice sounded as genuine as his smile.

The bikers all yelled their approval and the mob turned to face Steve and me.

“Who's paying?” Steve asked.

“Just pour, little man, and be happy that we ran off the Chinamen for you.”

Steve didn't move. It didn't matter that we had almost been in the middle of a hurricane of bullets a few minute before. Steve wasn't about to roll over for the Forty Thieves. My friend wasn't like Yang — he was fearless and had no problem with killing or dying. It wasn't that he was braver than the triad underboss; he was just crazier. Outside of D.B., none of the bikers knew Steve, and the anticipation of a twenty-on-one fight had them buzzing with adrenalin. I made eye contact with Roland. It took a few seconds for his brain, the part that was all instinct, to understand me. He got the message — as soon as it started, he was first to go. I would make sure that he died no matter what. But Roland didn't back down this time. He had lost enough respect for one day.

Shouting started, but D.B. quieted everyone down when he slammed a brick of cash on the bar.

“You boys stood up with me. Seems only fair that I get you drunk off your asses.”

There was a loud roar of approval from the bikers, and I saw Roland sneer in D.B.'s direction. He had lost to his second in command again. Not only would he have to contend with stories of D.B.'s bravery, but there would be tales of his generosity, too.

Steve took the cash and set up the bikers while I watched D.B. roll over to Roland. Roland took a chair and spoke close to D.B.'s ear. After a minute, D.B. rolled away from the table and motioned for me to come over and speak with him.

“Ballsy move calling Roland like that,” he said.

“Sometimes the safest place on the road is behind a car wreck.”

“You're not safe yet. Roland wants to talk to you.”

“About the rest of the money?”

“He knows there had to be more than this in an armoured car and he wants it.”

“You keeping your share?”

“It's mine, bro.”

“So he wants my share then.”

“I told him you won't give it up.”

“But he still wants it,” I said.

D.B. nodded. I patted the huge biker's shoulder and walked over to Roland's table. The pit bulls were lying on the floor beside Roland's chair. Their ears twitched as I got closer and their huge, cinderblock-shaped heads lifted off the floor. I looked at each dog and thought about how fast I would be able to get the Glock out.

“Scary, aren't they?” Roland said. “Scarier still when you think about the fact that if I say one word, just one, they'll tear you apart.”

I walked to the other side of the table and put my hands on the back of a chair.

“One word,” Roland said. “What could you do?”