The Driver (31 page)

“The dead ones?”

“Them, that one behind you, any others.”

“No,” he said.

“No police?”

“No police.”

“What about her?” he said, chin-nodding towards Eva. “You tell her?”

“No,” he said. “She doesn’t know anything.”

“You tell anyone else?”

“I told you––no-one knows but me.”

“Alright, then. That’s good. How’d you find out?”

“I had a chat with Jarad Efron.”

“A chat? What does that mean?”

“I dangled him off a balcony. He realised it’d be better to talk to me.”

“Think you’re a tough guy?”

“I’m nothing special.”

“I ain’t scared of you.”

“You shouldn’t be. You’ve got a shotgun.”

“Damn straight I do.”

“So why would you be scared?”

Milton glanced down at the microwave.

7.17.

7.16.

7.15.

“You want to tell me what happened to the girls?” he asked.

“Obvious, ain’t it?”

“They wanted money.”

“That’s right.” He flicked the barrel of the shotgun in Karly’s direction. “She wanted money.”

“And then you killed them?”

“They brought it on themselves.”

“Who told you to do it? Robinson?”

“Hell, no. Robinson didn’t know nothing about none of this shit. We took care of it on his behalf.”

“Crawford, then?”

“That’s right. Crawford and us, we just been cleaning up the Governor’s mess is what we been doing. He had his problems, y’all can see that plain as day, but that there was one great man. Would’ve been damn good for this fucked up country. What’s happened to him is a tragedy. Your fault, the way I see it. What you’ve done––digging your nose into business that don’t concern you, making trouble––well, old partner, that’s something you’re gonna have to account for, and the accounting’s gonna be scrupulous.”

“What about Madison Clarke?”

“Who?”

“Another hooker. The Governor was seeing her.”

“This the girl you took up to the party in Pine Shore?”

“That’s right. You all came out that night, didn’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“You find her?”

“You know what? We didn’t. We don’t know where she is.”

Milton glanced down at the microwave.

6.24.

6.23.

6.22.

Come on, come on, come on.

“We don’t need to do this, right?” he said, trying to buy them just a little more time. “I’m not going to say anything. You know where I live.”

Smokey laughed. “Nah, that ain’t gonna cut it. We don’t never leave loose ends and that’s what y’all are.”

5.33.

5.32.

5.31.

Smokey noticed Milton looking down at the microwave.

“Fuck you doing with that?” he said.

“I was hungry. I thought––”

“Fuck
that
.”

He stepped towards it.

“Please,” Milton said.

The man reached out for the stop button.

He saw the beer bottles inside, turning around on the platter: incongruous.

Too late.

The liquid inside the bottles was evaporating into steam; several atmospheres of pressure were being generated; the duct tape was holding the caps in place; the pressure was running up against the capacity of the bottle. Just at that precise moment there was no more space for it to go. It was fortunate: it couldn’t have been better timing. The bottles exploded with the same force as a quarter-stick of dynamite. The microwave was obliterated from the inside out: the glass in the door was flung across the room in a shower of razored slivers, the frame of the door cartwheeled away, the metal body was broken apart, rivets and screws popping out. Smokey was looking right at it, close, as it exploded; a parabola of debris enveloped his head, the barrage of tiny fragments slicing into his eyes and the skin of his face, his scalp, piercing his clothes and flesh.

Milton was further away yet the blast from the explosion staggered him backwards and, instants later, the red-hot shower peppered his skin. His bare arms were crossed with a thin bloody lattice as he dropped his arm from his face and made forwards.

He looked back quickly. “You alright?”

Neither Eva or Karly answered but he didn’t see any obvious damage.

He turned back. Smokey was on the floor, covered in blood. A large triangled shard from the microwave’s metal case was halfway visible in his trachea. He was gurgling and air whistled in and out of the tear in his throat. One leg twitched spastically. Milton didn’t need to examine him to know that he only had a minute or two to live.

The Remington was abandoned at his side.

Milton took it and brought it up. He heard hurried footsteps and ragged breathing and saw a momentary reflection in the long blank window that started in the corridor opposite the door. He aimed blind around the door and pulled one trigger, blowing buckshot into one of the other men from less than three feet away. Milton turned quickly into the corridor, the shotgun up and ready, and stepped over the second man’s body. He was dead. Half his face was gone.

Three down.

One left.

He moved low and fast, the shotgun held out straight. The corridor led into a main room with sofas, a jukebox, empty bottles and dope paraphernalia.

The fourth man popped out of cover behind the sofa and fired.

Milton dropped flat, rolled three times to the right, opening the angle and negating the cover, and pulled the trigger. Half of the buckshot shredded the sofa, the other half perforated the man from head to toe. He dropped his revolver and hit the floor with a weighty thud.

He got up. Save the cuts and grazes from the explosion, he was unmarked.

He went back to the kitchen.

Smokey was dead on the floor.

Eva and Karly hadn’t moved.

“It’s over,” he told them.

Eva bit her lip. “Are you alright?”

“I’m good. You?”

“Yes.”

“Both of you?”

“I’m fine,” Karly said.

He turned to Eva. “You both need to get out of here. We’re in Potrero Hill. I’ll open the gates for you and you need to get out. Find somewhere safe, somewhere with lots of people, and call the police. Do you understand?”

“What about you?”

“There’s someone I have to see.”

44

ARLEN CRAWFORD waited impatiently for the hotel lift to bear him down to the parking garage. He had his suitcase in his right hand and his overcoat folded in the crook of his left arm. The car had stopped at every floor on the way down from the tenth but it was empty now; just Crawford and the numb terror that events had clattered hopelessly out of control. He took his cellphone from his pocket and tried to call Jack Kerrigan again. There had been no reply the first and second time that he had tried but, this time, the call was answered.

“Jack! Smokey!” he said. “What the fuck’s going on?”

“Smokey’s dead, Mr. Crawford. His friends are dead, too.”

“Who is this?”

“You know who this is.”

The elevator reached the basement and the doors opened.

“Mr. Smith?”

“That’s right.”

“What do you want, Mr. Smith? Money?”

“No.”

“What do you want?”

“Justice would be a good place to start.”

“Jack killed the girls.”

“We both know that’s only half of the job done.”

He aimed the fob across the parking lot and thumbed the button. The car doors unlocked and the lights flashed.

“I didn’t have anything to do with it. There’s no proof.”

“Maybe not. But that would only be a problem if I was going to go to the police. I’m not going to go to the police, Mr. Crawford.”

“What are you going to do?”

No answer.

“What are you going to do?”

Silence.

Crawford reached the car and opened the driver’s door. He tossed the phone across the car onto the passenger seat. He went around and put the suitcase in the trunk. He got inside the car, took a moment to gather his breath, stepped on the clutch and pressed the ignition.

He felt a small, cold point of metal pressing against the back of his head.

He looked up into the rear-view mirror.

It was dark in the basement, just the glow of the sconced lights on the wall. The modest brightness fell across one half of the face of the man who was holding the gun. The other half was obscured by shadow. He recognised him: the impassive and serious face, the cruel mouth, the scar running horizontally across his face.

“Drive.”

PART FIVE

Collateral

45

THE MEETING on the third anniversary of Milton’s sobriety was a Big Book meeting. They were peaceful weekly gatherings, the format more relaxed than usual, and Milton usually enjoyed them. They placed tea lights around the room and someone had lit a joss stick (that had been the subject of a heated argument; a couple of the regulars had opined that it was a little too intoxicating for a roomful of recovering alkies and druggies). Every week, they each opened a copy of the book of advice that Bill Wilson, the founder of the program, had written, read five or six pages out loud and then discussed what it meant to them all. After a year they would have worked their way through it and then they would turn back to the start and begin again. Milton had initially thought the book was an embarrassingly twee self-help screed, and it was certainly true that it was packed full of platitudes, but, the more he grew familiar with it the easier it was to ignore the homilies and clichés and concentrate on the advice on how to live a worthwhile, sober, life. Now he often read a paragraph or two before he went to sleep at nights. It was good meditation.

The reading took fifteen minutes and then the discussion another thirty. The final fifteen minutes were dedicated to those who felt that they needed to share.

Richie Grimes raised his hand.

“Hey,” he said. “My name’s Richie and I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Richie,” they said together.

“You know about my problem––I’ve gone about it enough. But I’m here today to give thanks.” He paused and looked behind him; he was looking for Milton. “I don’t rightly know what happened, but I the man I owed money to has sold his book and the guys who bought it off him don’t look like they’re going to come after me for what I owe. I might be setting myself up for a fall but it’s starting to look to me like someone paid that debt off for me.” He shook his head. “You know, I was talking to a friend here after I did my share last week. I won’t say who he was––anonymity, all that––but he told me to trust my Higher Power. If I didn’t know any better I’d say he was right. My Higher Power has intervened, like we say it will if we ask for help, because if it wasn’t that then I don’t know what the hell it was.”

There was a moment of silence and then loud applause.

“Thank you for sharing,” Smulders said when it had died down. “Anyone else?”

Milton raised his own hand.

Smulders cocked an eyebrow in surprise. “John?”

“My name is John and I’m an alcoholic,” Milton said.

“Hello, John.”

“There’s something I need to share, too. If I don’t get it off my chest I know I’ll be back on the booze eventually. I thought I could keep it in but… I know that I can’t.”

He paused.

Richie turned and looked at him expectantly.

The group waited for him to go on.

Eva reached across, took his hand and gave it a squeeze.

Milton thought of the other people in the room, and how they were living the Program, bravely accepting ‘honesty in all our affairs,’ and he knew, then, with absolute conviction, that he would never be able to go as far down the road as they had. If it was a choice between telling a room full of strangers about the blood that he had on his hands and taking a drink, then he was going to take a drink. Every time. He thought of what he had almost been prepared to say and he felt the heat gathering in his face at the foolish audacity of it.

“John?” Smulders prompted.

Eva squeezed his hand again.

No, he thought.

Some things had to stay unsaid.

“I just wanted to say how valuable I’ve found this meeting. Most of you know me by now, even if it’s just as the guy with the coffee and the biscuits. You probably wondered why I don’t say much. You probably think I’m pretty bad at all this, and maybe I am, but I’m doing my best. One day at a time, like we always say. I can do better, I know I can, but I just wanted to say that it’s my third year without a drink today and that’s as good a reason for celebrating as I’ve ever really had before. So,” he cleared his throat, constricted by sudden emotion, “you know, I just wanted to say thanks. I wouldn’t be able to do it on my own.”

There was warm applause and the case of birthday chips was extracted from the cupboard marked PROPERTY OF A.A. They usually started with the newest members, those celebrating a day or a week or a month, and those were always the ones that were marked with the loudest cheers, the most high-fives and the strongest hugs. There were no others celebrating tonight and when Smulders called out for those celebrating three years to come forward, Milton stood up and, smiling shyly, went up to the front. Smudlers shook his hand warmly and handed him his chip. It was red, made from cheap plastic and looked like a chocolate coin, the edge raised and stippled, the A.A. symbol embossed on one side and a single 3 on the other. Milton self-consciously raised it up in his fist and the applause started again. He felt a little dazed as he went back to his seat. Eva took his hand again and tugged him down.

“Well done,” she whispered into his ear.

46

IT WAS TIME. He had already stayed longer than was safe. He had thought about skipping the meeting altogether, and he had gone so far as getting to the airport and the long-stay parking lot but he had been unable to go through with it. He needed the meeting and, more than that, he needed to see his friends there: Smulders, Grimes, the other alkies who drank his coffee and ate his biscuits and asked him how he was and how he was doing.