L DROVE HIS WIFE’S El Dorado down the Strip in the old part of town, turned right on Carson toward the tracks, then pulled into the alley between Eddie’s Gym and Kitty’s Escort Service. He looked past the triple-x video store to the line of winos hunched on a wooden bench, waiting to give plasma at the American Biomedical Center and pick up their 15 bucks. Most of them were regulars, guys who gave three times a week. Al, too, had given a few times–when he was desperate–but couldn’t stand the needles. The bums hung around town until the desert temperatures climbed into the 90s, then fled northward by hopping a slow-moving train.
The high brick walls that ran up each side of the alley between the
two buildings were plastered with posters of half-naked women in seductive poses, promising anything and everything a man could desire “in the way of exotic dancing”. Food wrappers and crumpled newspaper pages cluttered the base of each wall. These drifted about in the stagnant air as the car passed. Several stinking dumpsters languished at the far end of the alley, waiting to be emptied.
Al pulled up to a metal door behind the Three Queens Casino’s parking structure. Enough flecks of white and gold paint clung to the brick wall to make out the name: Eddie’s Gym. The owner’s beat-up ‘55 Ford pickup rested in its usual oil-stained parking spot, the same place it had been parked every day for over 35 years.
The smell of Chinese food, mingled with automotive paint fumes, lingered in the greasy smoke that drifted from the rear of the building. The burly man climbed the steps and banged hard on the metal door. Looking to the west, he spotted a filthy woman with matted gray hair. She paused briefly from scrounging in the dumpster and stared up at him.
“Vut you looking at?” Al growled, prompting the woman to step from atop a plastic milk crate, place it in her battered shopping cart and scurry away, the cart’s rattling wheels echoing down the alleyway. When he turned back, the heavy metal door opened and a black man named Ty, with the build of a rhinoceros, filled the void where the door had hung. Al squeezed by the enormous mass of a man, all the while ignoring Ty’s blasphemous objections to folks who used the rear entrance. Then the door clanked shut behind them both.
Inside, the men lumbered down the darkened corridor. Neither seemed to notice the repugnant odors that had struggled to flee the building through the briefly yawning door. At the end of the corridor Ty stopped in front of another metal door and folded his arms across his hairless chest, while Al proceeded through a room full of men, grunting, lifting heavy weights and admiring their sleeveless or shirtless rippled bodies in the mirrored west wall.
Toward the rear of the room was a roped off ring, slightly elevated above the floor, upon which two men vied to beat each other’s brains out. A wizened old man in a white tank top, his hair flecked mostly gray, slouched on a nearby stool, sluggishly swinging his clenched fists in the air. The loose folds of skin of his arms flopped about as he shouted out instructions.
Al approached the old man and hollered, “Goot day, Eddie!” Eddie Alders, eyebrows raised, turned his lean body to see who it was that had broken through his cloud of concentration. The puffy slits above his eyes lifted enough for Al to see his dark pupils. Eddie smiled a thin, puckered grin. The curled-up waxed ends of his gray moustache folded back toward his swollen cheeks as he cupped his gnarled hand to his ear.
“Wha’dya say?” Then, as if by instinct, he swivelled back around to shout another string of instructions at the sweaty pair of fighters.
Al gave him a slap on the back and made his way to the stairs leading up to the ring.
An upper-floor balcony ran the length of each of the room’s four walls. From his corner roost, elbows on mahogany desk pushed against the glass overlooking the gym, sat Clint, Eddie’s grandson. The young man glanced up from his phone call, penetrating green eyes impatiently signaling to Al to wait in the hall until he finished. The veins bulged in Clint’s sculpted arms, meat hooks that stretched the sleeves of his white polo shirt as he leaned over and pushed the door to his office closed. Then he flicked at the dark mop of gelled hair that cascaded down onto his brow, a nervous habit he’d had since he was a boy. His business finished, Clint rose and opened the office door and motioned for Al to come up, cursing the lazy Russian for not using the regular
channels of delivery.
Al erupted in a laugh. He had known Clint when he was still stealing candy bars from the corner market; that was before he’d been retained to sell steroids to his grandpa’s gym-rat boxers. Now he felt the
urge to remind the younger man of his humble beginnings. Clint, stung
by the rebuke, immediately turned quiet, his lip drawn down into a
sullen pout. Sensing that he at last had been accorded proper respect,
Al cunningly added, “I got mail.” With that he withdrew Mitch’s credit
application from his centerfold and tossed in on the desk. Envelope in hand, Clint swivelled on his chair and dropped the application in a mail chute. The two men sat in silence, waiting. Clint
tugged nervously at the stubbly sideburns that extended to the bottom
of his ear, his eyes darting about on the screen of his computer monitor. Meanwhile, Al snapped his dirty magazine open to “read.” The
phone would ring in its own good time.
Clint was an only grandchild. Eddie once bragged that his grandson
could be a middleweight champion like he had been. But the “boy,”
now 28, had proved a disappointment, both in the ring and in life.
Eddie blamed himself–as well as his over-indulgent daughter–for
Clint’s failures. The boy, however, had finally started to make something of himself, running a successful telemarketing business from his
basement.
It had all begun a year earlier when the new landlord from New
Jersey purchased their building, along with the rest of the city block.
Eddie had received an eviction notice, together with 24 other tenants.
In an attempt to fight back, they’d formed an alliance to convince the
new owners not to demolish the properties, but instead to help revitalize the neighborhood. After a sufficient amount of groveling, the mysterious corporation had sent a representative around, Vincent
Domenico.
Using his considerable “people skills,” Vincent had agreed to allow
the tenants to stay on a trial basis, if they agreed to let him evaluate
their business practices to see if they could afford an increase in rent.
Straightway, seven of the 24 owners sold out to Vincent and moved
on. The remaining companies seemed to prosper under the new arrangement. It was about that time that Clint had decided to get involved in his aging grandfather’s business. It was he who now ran the entire gym operation. Over the ensuing months, Eddie had seemed to go down hill, almost completely losing his hearing.
When the phone rang, Clint pounced on it like a hunger-crazed badger, snapping up the receiver and cramming it up to his ear. Then, without saying a word, he dropped it back into its receiver. “Looks like you get the bonus on this one.” He leaned back in his chair and wrestled a loose roll of cash from his front pants pocket. “This Mitch guy won’t be good again. Find someone new, and, remember, next time use the proper channels.”
Al nodded and hauled himself to his feet. “Looks like you needs bigger pants,” he chuckled as Clint peeled off two crisp hundred-dollar bills. He reached out as if to hand them to Al, then flung them across the desk. The bills drifted to the floor. Al grunted as he shot an odious gaze at the pretty-faced boy and bent to collect his reward. Al had enough respect for Eddie that he didn’t bother to say what he was thinking to his punk of a grandson. He gathered his money and headed for the door.
“I’m not kidding, Al. If you don’t use proper channels, you won’t get a dime next time.”
Al mumbled a few rough Russian words as he made for the stairs. Reaching the last squeaky step, he entered the gym. Al noticed Eddie take his log and weight book from his hip pocket, bite at the short pencil he kept behind his ear, and scratch out some notes, a task he’d performed thousands of times before.
Mitch, after taking a moment to admire his flawless work on the Ferrari, pulled his GTO into the empty bay of Mike’s shop. Just a few more minor details to attend to. Mike had seemed pleased with the bullet-riddled car’s quality and time of completion, and offered to give Mitch a hand.
Just then a late-model Corvette convertible purred up to the open bay doors. Two men in their late twenties stepped from the low-profile car. Mitch noticed the passenger first, clad in a silk suit and designer sunglasses. A heavy gold chain hung around his neck. His shirt was unbuttoned to mid-chest, as if to purposely show off the blinding piece of jewelry. The man’s face seemed as hard and cold as marble. He paused to eye the joint, ran his fingers through his dark hair, and stepped toward the red Ferrari in the first bay.
Guessing the guy must be the owner of the car, Mitch, noting the classic gangster stereotype, chuckled under his breath. His recollection of the bullet in his pants pocket, though, kept the big smile–anxious to escape–under wraps.
The man drew the shades from his face as Mike approached. The owner’s emotionless black eyes, didn’t really seem to belong to the mouth, which had broken into a shallow smile. “The cah looks as good as new,” he chortled in his thick Jersey accent.
Mitch’s gaze shifted to take in the Vette’s driver, who sported a white polo shirt with the words Eddie’s Gym stitched across his bulging chest. He flicked a few strands of styled hair from his eyes and followed the first man into the garage. Mitch climbed from the back seat of the GTO.
Mike shook hands with the first man, then turned to introduce his co-worker. “This is Mitch Wilson. He’s the talent behind the job.”
The owner of the car stuck his hand out and took Mitch’s in a clenching grip. “Vincent Domenico–my friends call me Vinnie. This is Clint Thurston, an associate.”
Mitch nodded.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Vinnie continued. “Bino says you’re the best in the state.”
Mitch shuffled awkwardly. The spotlight didn’t really suit him. “I learned from the best,” he replied, referring to his grandfather.
“This your cah?” Vinnie nodded his head as he wandered around the back of the Ferrari to peer through the open door into the immaculate GTO.
“It is.”
“You did a helluva job. They sure don’t make ‘em like this anymore.” Vinnie looked over at Clint; it was a look an older brother reserves for a kid sister. Eddie’s muscle-bound punk of a grandson wasn’t much of a car enthusiast. “Take off Clint! They’ve got my ride finished. I’ll catch you later.”
Clint nodded, put his sunglasses back on and retreated to his expensive auto without saying a word. Mike made a mental note of the Vette’s license plate number as it pulled from the parking lot.
Vinnie continued to admire Mitch’s GTO. “You running three deuces and a big block?”
Clearly the guy knew cars. Mitch popped the hood.
Vinnie’s eyes lit up at sight of the engine. “This baby ought’a move.”
“It probably wouldn’t hold a candle to yours in the quarter-mile– the top end’s flat at about one-twenty. What does the Ferrari do?”
Vinnie’s chin protruded in thought and he nodded his head in a cocky gesture. “With the modifications . . . she’ll get to about 220. Want to take it for a spin?”
“No way! Are you serious?” Mitch glanced over at Mike, who stood listening, pondering whether to warn the kid who it was he was dealing with.
“Hop in. We’ll catch 15 northbound at Cheyenne. You can open her up outside of town and see how she feels. I’ve got the best radar detection money can buy, and if the traffic’s light you might be able to hit 180–that is, if you got the cojones.”
Mitch couldn’t help but bust out in his little-kid grin; this was like living a dream. He’d pressed a few of his cars on the same strip of freeway on the way to grandpa’s, but the fastest he’d ever gone was 120 mph. Mike tried to catch Mitch’s eye to stop him, but he was too caught up in the moment. Both he and Vinnie climbed in the car and veered out onto the highway.
Mike went back around to his trailer, pulled a cell phone from under a kitchen drawer, and punched in a number. “He’s after the kid.”
Agent Barnes’ sarcasm had not tapered off in the least.“Is this the same good kid you practically had to force to work on the bullet holes?”
“I’m telling you, let’s bring the kid in and put him on the payroll. It’ll save us all a lot of trouble.”
“Just keep an eye on him for now and stay in touch. If things start moving, we’ll bring in back-up and get you some listening equipment.”
Mitch nestled into the Ferrari’s black leather driver’s seat. It felt like he was barely creeping along as he traveled northbound past the modest flow of traffic. The radar detector warned of a potential problem looming ahead. After dropping down to a legal speed, they passed the highway patrolman waiting under the overpass at Craig Road. His head turned to watch the sporty red car pass. A mile more down the road, Vinnie asked why Mitch didn’t turn it loose.
“I’ve been wondering the same thing.” Mitch slammed the shifter into third. Then he pressed the gas pedal to the floor and popped the clutch. Even at 70 mph, the tires squealed. Both men were pressed back tightly against their seats as the rush of acceleration flowed through their veins.
Mitch hit fourth gear doing 110; fifth gear at 145. The car still had power to burn as he wove in and out of traffic–past cars and trucks that seemed to be standing still. The car handled unlike anything he’d ever driven. Vinnie seemed unaffected by the mounting speed, but Mitch’s mind was reeling.
“My wife’d kill me if she knew what I was doing,” he exclaimed over the high-pitched whine of the performance engine, now in high gear.
“It’s good to see you’re your own man.”
Somewhere between 160 and 180, Mitch sensed a twinge of doubt tug at his mind. The image of his twins flashed before him–at almost the same instant the beep of the radar detector warned of trouble.
“Hit the brakes,” Vinnie shouted, “and pull to the shoulder.” Both men lurched forward as the anti-lock brakes nearly stood the car on its nose. Within 20 seconds they were parked on the side of the freeway to await the oncoming patrol car.
Vinnie settled back in his seat, one hand resting on the car’s molded dash, the other lightly massaging the back of his neck. “If you’re lucky, he didn’t get a lock and the scrambler will screw up his readings.”
Soon a patrol car came into view from up the highway, slowed when its driver spotted the idling Ferrari, and crossed the median in a cloud of dust. Before the officer had climbed from his vehicle, a second patrol car pulled up behind him, its lights still flashing.
“Don’t worry, they haven’t got enough to make anything stick.” Vinnie opened the passenger door and started to exit the car. Mitch, meanwhile, stayed put. The thought of losing his driver’s license churned through his head.
“Get back in the vehicle,” ordered the approaching patrolman.
“What seems to be the problem, officer?” Vinnie innocently asked, standing his ground, one hand poised atop the vehicle’s shapely fender.
The officer’s right hand rested flat against his holstered gun. “I said get back in the vehicle,” he repeated. The second officer cautiously advanced from the passenger side of the first patrol car as Vinnie slowly turned and slid back into his seat.
The first officer sidled up to the car. “Put your hands where I can see them.” Mitch swallowed hard. Suddenly the plush bucket seat didn’t seem so comfortable anymore. He willed his clammy hands onto the steering wheel. Vinnie, on the other hand, acted nonchalant. He seemed to relish the confrontation.
“I’m going to need your driver’s licenses and the car’s registration.” The officer was now positioned behind the driver’s door out of range of vision. Mitch reached down and removed his wallet. Vinnie took the registration from the glove box and passed it and his license to Mitch. The officer cautiously took the documents. “Do you know how fast you were going?”
“He wasn’t driving, officer, I was,” Vinnie broke in. “We just pulled over so he could take a turn behind the wheel.”
Mitch’s head swivelled sideways. Vinnie, wearing a corrugated halfgrin, was taking the rap. The officer stepped to the rear of the vehicle and motioned the second officer to his side.
“What are you doing?” Mitch muttered under his breath.
“Keeping you out of jail for reckless driving. Don’t tell them anything.”
After a minute’s time, the first officer returned to the window. “Mr. Wilson, could you step back to my vehicle?”
Mitch extracted himself from the Ferrari, made his way to the patrol car, and sank into its cluttered passenger seat. The officer typed Mitch’s driver’s license number into his onboard computer and waited for a response. Mitch shifted uneasily, thinking back to the incident the night before with Greg Hart. He hoped no one had given his description to the police.
The officer reached up and pushed a button on the back of his radar gun. “That’s how fast you were going.” The display read 179. Mitch remained silent. The officer picked up the radio. “Two-twelve . . . did you get that description?”
“Negative . . . both callers said they were traveling too fast.”
The officer turned back to Mitch. “You’ve got a clean record, Mr. Wilson, but it appears your friend isn’t such a good citizen. I wouldn’t hesitate to throw you both in jail for that little stunt if I had enough proof to do it.” Mitch looked up in surprise. “Next time you won’t be so lucky. You’re either going to kill someone or I’ll catch you again and take you in. I’m going to write you a warning to make sure I remember who you are.”
Mitch waited for the paperwork, half apologized to the officer for his trouble, then returned to the Ferrari, where Vinnie, now in the driver’s seat, coolly waited.
“What’d I tell ya, kid? He couldn’t write you up, could he?”
“No, but he knew I was driving.”
“Knowing and proving are two very different things,” Vinnie boasted. “You got big ones, kid, big ones; I like that. Bino told me you got potential.” He pulled from the shoulder of the road. “I didn’t think anyone could get this car looking like new so fast. . . . It’s yours if you come to work for me.”
Mitch was sure his ears had gone haywire or something. “What?”
“I could never drive a cah that’s been repaired, even if it does look like new. I’ll pay you six grand a month and enough under the table bonuses that you won’t know what to do with all the cash. Whatta you say?”
Vinnie exited the freeway, circled under the overpass and started back to town. Mitch, his stomach still tied up in knots, could hardly speak. “What . . .” he stammered, “kind of work do you do?”
“I’m a businessman–a financial advisor to several business interests. I need a partner in a body shop I bought a few months back ‘cause my last manager quit. Matter of fact, your boss stole him from me along with some of my best customers. I figure I wasn’t paying him enough to keep him happy. It’s so hard to find good help these days.”
“Look, Mr. Domenico–”
“Call me Vinnie. . . .” The car’s compact, insulated interior took on a momentary, eerie silence.
“Mr. Domenico . . . Vinnie, I mean . . . Mike’s my friend, and I don’t know anything about you. I’m planning on going back to school in the fall. I don’t think I’m the right man for the job. . . .” Mitch noticed the muscles tighten in Vinnie’s jaw and temple.
“Just think it over a few days. Bino tells me Mike’s had a rough start. Maybe I’ve got room for the both of you. . . . I’ll get back to you– just give it some thought.”
Mitch’s muddled brain was riveted on the bullet in his pocket. He didn’t need to think it over. The answer would be the same no matter how much he was offered. It was just too good to be . . . well, good.