Authors: David Housewright

Tags: #Mystery & Thriller

Tin City (25 page)

BOOK: Tin City

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We all have loops of videotape that rerun themselves on our bedroom ceilings late at night, movies we wish we would never see again. Maybe I owned a bigger archive than most. Maybe the films were more violent. The result of living an NC-17 life. At least it used to be NC-17. The way ratings are being deflated these days, what with crashing towers
and a never-ending war against terrorism, it was probably only an R now.

The thing was, the only sure way to escape them was to stop going to the movies altogether. And that was what I did best, going to movies for people, a kind of freelance critic trying to help my friends avoid the bombs. It was pretentious as hell, of course. Like most films, the life I chose didn’t stand up to serious scrutiny. Best not to think too much about it, I decided and rolled on my side. Best to just sit back and see what happens next.

I followed Highway 169 north into Elk River. Traffic flowed smoothly, even during the early morning rush hour. Of course, most of the traffic was heading into the Cities and I was driving out.

People who don’t live here tend to think of the Twin Cities as only St. Paul and Minneapolis. But according to the U.S. Census Bureau, the Greater Twin Cities Metropolitan Area actually consists of 191 cities and towns, some of them with even smaller populations than Hilltop. Elk River, population 16,447, was located about forty minutes north of Minneapolis. Like most third-, fourth-, and fifth-ring suburbs, its businesses—mostly retail—were built along the freeways and highways, while its homes, schools, and churches were tucked more or less out of sight behind them.

The address Chopper gave me belonged to Spivak Stone, a failed quarry that was apparently abandoned. There were two signs out front. The first was old and weathered and advertised sand, gravel, and
crushed stone. The second listed the name and phone number of a finance company.

I turned off 169 and drove slowly past the quarry over a worn and gravel-strewn service road. I noted two large buildings, both tightly sealed, just inside a high Cyclone fence topped with barbed wire. The gate was open, allowing access to a dirt road that veered into the opening of the quarry itself. Beyond the opening I could just make out what resembled a huge bowl carved out of an immense five-story-high bluff. The second time I drove past I noticed an SUV parked alongside a mound of sand midway between the fence and the quarry. There were two men sitting in the SUV. They watched me carefully. I didn’t dare make a return trip.

Instead, I followed the service road until it abruptly ended about a half mile from the quarry. There were no other businesses along the road, and I figured a parked car would look mighty suspicious, so I edged the Neon off the hard-packed gravel into a shallow ditch surrounded by waist-high brown grass, shrubs, and weed trees. You could still see it, but only if you were looking.

I left the Neon and made my way up the bluff, more or less climbing at a forty-five-degree angle to the summit. It was tough going, and I had to stop twice to regain my breath. I was covered with a fine tan-colored dirt by the time I reached the top. The bluff itself was flat and thick with the same kind of grass, brush, and trees as below. Birds sang somewhere, but I didn’t see them, and there was a low buzzing sound that I guessed was wind blowing through the tall grass.

I pushed east toward the quarry. Along the way I discovered a broken and rotting rail fence. After another tenth of a mile I came across an ancient road not used for years, perhaps decades. I wondered if someone had farmed the top of the bluff at one time and had been bought or driven off. I kept on until I came to within a stone’s throw of the quarry. That’s where my acrophobia kicked in. I sank to my hands and knees
and crawled forward. I was lying flat on my stomach, screened from sight by the scrub growth that hung above the quarry, by the time I reached the edge.

The walls were sheer and descended fifty feet to the sand-and-gravel floor of an irregular oval about the size of a professional baseball field. There was only one way in, the single dirt road I had seen earlier. It was cut wide enough for heavy earth movers, steam shovels, and dump trucks, although there were now none to be seen. From my perch I could just barely make out the back end of the SUV stationed at the mouth of the road with my binoculars.

I challenged my fear of heights by looking straight down. That lasted about three seconds before I squirmed backward away from the edge.
Never look down,
I told myself. It seemed like wise advice.

A few moments later, a small van drove into the quarry and parked along the north wall. It was followed a half minute later by a battered Ford Taurus. I glanced at my watch. 7:53.

During the next hour, the quarry filled up with assorted vans, SUVs, pickups, cars, and even a few ancient station wagons, the vehicles forming an irregular circle along the sand-and-gravel walls. Some of the drivers sat inside their vehicles. Others sprawled on their hoods or leaned against bumpers. Still others moved about with hands in their pockets. There was scant conversation as far as I could see. All in all, the gathering reminded me of an unhappy family reunion.

I examined the drivers with my binoculars. There was a mixture of Caucasians, African Americans, Native Americans, Hispanics, Hmong, Pakistanis, Indians—
what is this, the United Nations?
I recalled Chopper’s telephone conversation. He had said, “Whaddaya mean, do I have a store?” I guessed these guys were all owners and operators of neighborhood convenience stores. Who else could sell a high volume of illegal cigarettes? It fit the stereotype, anyway.

Finally my binoculars rested on a decidedly white, European face. It
belonged to a man who seemed to wander aimlessly among the other drivers while surreptitiously jotting down license plate numbers in a tiny notebook he hid in the palm of his hand.

Sykora.

I followed his movements. Eventually he led me to more than a dozen men standing in separate clusters of two and three near two vans parked on opposite sides of the road near the entrance to the quarry. Some of the men looked intense, like athletes waiting for the game to commence. Others were smiling like a pride of hungry lions that had happened upon a herd of sleeping wildebeests.

Sykora looked at his watch. I looked at mine. 9:16.

At 9:22, a semitractor and trailer chugged over the dirt road, passing Sykora and his colleagues and crossing the quarry to the west wall, where it halted. The drivers of the assorted vehicles seemed to hesitate, then moved forward en masse. Soon a single well-behaved, unhurried line formed at the back of the trailer. I seemed to be the only one who noticed Sykora’s vans close with each other, forming a roadblock at the mouth of the quarry, or a dozen men suddenly pulling on blue windbreakers with large bright yellow letters on the front and back spelling FBI.

Sykora began shouting through a handheld electronic megaphone. I couldn’t hear him from my perch, but the drivers did.

There was a moment of confusion, followed by panic, followed quickly by angry shouts and running. Lots of running. Most of the drivers dashed to their vehicles. They drove forward at first toward the barricade, then backward, then in circles looking for an exit from the quarry that wasn’t there. The circle of vehicles expanded and collapsed upon itself, the attempted evacuation quickly becoming an unwieldy traffic jam.

A few SUV drivers—maybe they actually believed the TV commercials—attempted to scale the walls of the quarry, but the slopes were too
steep and the sand and gravel too soft, and they slid backward. One SUV managed to climb almost vertically before it tipped over and rolled to the quarry floor. Other drivers abandoned their vehicles and tried to climb the walls, but they had no more luck than the SUVs.

In an effort to gain control of the chaos, an FBI agent discharged his weapon into the air. A driver turned and fired at the FBI agent. One of the agent’s colleagues shot at the driver.

“Oh, Jeezus,” I muttered, expecting a bloodbath. But there were no more shots, and soon the FBI restored order.

I found Sykora with my glasses. He was smiling while he and another agent made their way across the quarry to the semitrailer, smiling when they flung open the trailer doors.

The trailer was empty.

Sykora’s smile disappeared.

He seemed shocked at first. Then visibly angry. An agent said something to him. He snapped back. The agent spoke again, and Sykora turned on him, shouting and waving his hands. The agent smiled benignly.

“Steven, Steven, Steven,” I chuckled from my perch above and behind the FBI agent. “Put a fork in it, buddy. You’re done.”

Sykora knew it, too. Other agents tried to speak to him, but he brushed them off. He turned and managed a dozen steps away from the truck and his fellow agents before stopping, his hands gripping the top of his head as if he were afraid it would explode. Suddenly he looked up. I followed his gaze to the rim of the quarry. Something metallic flashed against the morning sun.

I brought my binoculars up but saw nothing. I trained the glasses back on Sykora, who continued to look upward. I couldn’t hear him, of course, but his efficient mouth movements were easily readable.

“Fuck you,” he said.

Frank.

I trained the glasses back on the rim. I saw nothing, but I knew he was there.

I have you now, you bastard.

I crawled backward until I was a good fifteen yards from the edge of the quarry, climbed to my feet, and started jogging along the rim toward the metallic flash. I was determined to get Frank once and for all for what he had done to my friends. Only I wasn’t thinking clearly. For example, I was carrying the binoculars in my hand but not my Beretta. Careless. And I was running full bore, not even thinking about cover. That was worse than careless. It was suicidal. I realized it the moment I saw Frank and Danny standing away from the edge of the quarry, about 150 yards from my original position.

They were both armed, Frank with his shotgun and Danny with a pistol.

They saw me coming.

Danny raised his hand.

I shied like a horse; stopped running.

He shot at me with the small-caliber handgun. It would have been dumb luck if he had hit me from that distance, but it’d been done before. Fortunately for me, Danny’s aim wasn’t helped any by Frank, who shoved him toward me, jostling his arm as Danny squeezed the trigger.

I dove to the ground as Danny fired. The brown grass and shrubs were waist high, and I disappeared into them.

“Get him!” Frank said.

I lifted my head. Danny was gazing in my direction, but I don’t think he saw me. Frank was waddling quickly away in the opposite direction—with his weight, he was lucky he could run at all. I moved toward my left to cut him off. Danny saw me and threw another shot my way. I went to ground again, paused for a moment, then circled
hard to my right, staying low. When I came up again I saw Frank. He was about fifty yards away, opening the door of a Chevy Blazer. Apparently he had also discovered the abandoned road and used it.

Danny saw me and fired. Again I sank behind the grass and shrubs. I kept circling to my right until I heard the Chevy’s engine catch.

Danny was now standing directly in front of the Blazer, studying the terrain. Frank put the Blazer in gear. Danny gave up his search and moved toward the passenger door. Only Frank wasn’t waiting. He leaned on the accelerator. The Blazer’s wheels spun, gained purchase, and propelled the vehicle forward. Danny leapt out of the way. Frank steered a tight circle across the grass, picked up the road again, and drove off. Danny chased after him, roaring epithets you won’t find in Shakespeare.

“Don’t leave me!” he shouted as the Chevy Blazer reached the far side of the bluff and dipped out of sight. Danny watched for a moment, then spun around, gripping his gun with both hands. I ducked out of sight. I wasn’t worried about Danny. But where was Brucie? I couldn’t find him anywhere, and not knowing his location frightened me. Twice he had managed to get behind me, and I doubted my chances of surviving a third encounter.

Danny left the road and took refuge in the tall grass and shrubs near a weed tree.

“McKenzie! Hey, McKenzie,” he called.

I didn’t answer. Where was Brucie? I gave it a few moments and decided he wasn’t on the bluff.

“McKenzie,” Danny called again. His back was to the tree, and he was glancing frantically from side to side. I moved toward him. By now I had discarded the binoculars and had activated my Beretta.

“We can work this out, McKenzie. Whaddaya say?”

Danny drifted a few steps away from the tree and crouched out of
sight. I cautiously worked my way to his location, only when I reached it, he was gone. I lifted my eyes above the grass, did a quick 360. I couldn’t see him. But I could hear him.

“We can talk. Can’t we talk?”

I crept toward his voice, only he had moved again.

I was sweating, and the duckwalk through the grass was causing my back to cramp. I fought the impulse to stand and stretch it out.

“I can ‘preciate you bein’ pissed about the woman, okay? But that wasn’t me, man. That’s all Frank. Frank’s the boss. You gotta know what I’m saying.”

I found a large stone and decided to try the old movie trick, see if I could get Danny to reveal his position. I heaved the stone far to my right, listened for the thud. It came and went without Danny reacting to it.
I knew it wouldn’t work. Stupid movies.

I moved forward again, cautiously parting the grass with the barrel of the Beretta, listening. I heard wind. And the pounding of my heart.

“McKenzie! I didn’t do nothin’ to you.”

I veered slightly to my right. After a few yards the grass thinned just enough for me to see Danny squatting about twenty paces ahead. I brought up the Beretta.

“McKenzie, where are you?”

“Here,” I said.

Danny spun on his heels and fired two quick shots at me from the hip.

BOOK: Tin City

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