Ocean Drive, page 22
“Unwanted by who? Your clients?”
Zoe sunk her teeth into the crisp wafer of her cone.
“I take out Harv, they’ll protect me inside? And the money’s waiting for me when I get out?”
“That would complete our deal.”
Cam took in a deep breath of icy, ocean-scented air, looked back toward the beach. A family was walking along the sand, all three of them in padded coats and boots. The little girl was being dragged along by the red leash connected to her mittens.
“You’ll have to get me a gun,” he said.
* * *
Before she left, Zoe gave him two hundred dollars cash and a disposable credit card. He waited on the bench, looking at the green water smothered by fog, the ash-coloured sand. Smoking cigarettes, warming his hands.
After maybe an hour, he heard a honk from the parking lot behind him. A silver Honda waited in the midway between lanes of parking. A middle-aged South Asian man in a suit behind the wheel.
Cam approached, saw the man unlock the passenger door. He climbed in.
They drove away from the beach to a street in front of a low-rise apartment building draped in a white fumigation tent. Here the man got out of the car and gestured for Cam to follow. They both went around to the trunk.
Inside was a grey hoodie, a black Mariners cap, two burner cellphones and a Smith & Wesson .357 with a box each of .38 Special and Magnum rounds.
The man tossed the keys into Cam’s cupped palm and walked to a dark Lexus parked down the block. His farewell was a salute of the index finger to his brow.
Cam ripped the price tag off the hoodie and struggled into it. He pulled the cap low over his head. He tucked the gun in the compartment between the seats, then stared at the instrument panel. He hadn’t driven a new car in—well, ever. Certainly not since going inside. A button started the engine instead of a key. The panel and interface took a minute to figure out, the gauges and odometer only light green spectra on a screen.
Where would Harv be right now? Not at the house on the beach, since the cops had been there. Not at Sukhi’s. Face facts: Harv was smarter. More resourceful, better connected, more plugged into the city. He would soon know Cam was out. He’d be preparing for him.
The problem with smart people? They were always a little arrogant, gave you less credit that you deserved.
He dialed Harv’s number, waited three rings, five. A connection. For a long moment, neither of them said anything.
Then Harv asked, “Who is this?”
“Who do you think, asshole?” Play angry, make him think you’re in a rage.
“You’re out.” Harv’s voice was calm.
“No thanks to you. All that ‘we’re in this together’ bullshit.”
“Things happen,” Harv said.
“Yeah, they do, but I notice not to you.” Softening his voice. “Look, man, I got nowhere else to turn. You gotta get me some cash and a way out—and I’m not talking about Tito’s weed money. Ten grand and a plane ticket.”
“All right,” Harv said, agreeing too quickly, the way Cam thought he would.
“Maybe a boat would be better. Get me down to Mexico.”
“Sure.”
“And what about ID? You must know a guy, right?”
“I’ll take care of it,” Harv said. “Are you in town?”
“Close,” Cam said. “How soon can you get the cash and ID?”
“Almost noon now. Let’s say two o’clock at the port.”
“All right,” Cam said. Then adding a calculated note of suspicion, “The ID, you’ll need a photo.”
“We’ll bring the equipment, take it right there.”
“Bullshit, this is a fucking set-up.” Suspicion mixed with despair, imploring Harv to say it wasn’t so. “You’re fucking with me.”
“Wouldn’t do that, brother,” Harv said. “A laptop and the right printer is all it takes.” Chuckling, “Not like you got a choice, Cam.”
“No,” Cam said, realizing the truth of that statement for the version of himself he was presenting to Harv, and the even more terrified version gazing at himself in the rearview.
“Two o’clock, the parking lot near the port,” Harv said. “The spot of your great heist.”
* * *
There was a small off-leash dog park too close to the port to be used by anyone but the locals. The red loading cranes towered over it. The sloping grass led to a rocky beach which wound along the coast, culminating in a pile of rubble, from the top of which Cam had a view of the parking lot he’d broken into months ago.
Maybe that had been the turning point. The moment he lost the plot. If he hadn’t been so desperate to prove he was smarter than everyone, so enthusiastic…
In truth, the heist had been the first moment he’d felt good since the days before the killing, when he’d worked for Uncle Pete and felt useful and content.
He watched the entrance to the port and waited for the soldiers of the man he had to kill.
No way Harv would come himself. He’d send his people, the members of the Vipers or the League who were loyal to him.
So they get to the parking lot and don’t see Cam. They wait around. And then?
Then they notice the note.
Cam had raced to the parking lot as soon as the meet had been set, knowing there was a small chance Harv would have people waiting. Along the way he’d stopped at an ATM and grabbed a bank envelope. With a pen and a page torn from the Honda’s mileage log, he’d written Harv a note.
Had to run
Will call tomorrow
Don’t trust our friends
Instead get in touch with CPG
thanks brother
He’d noticed a decrepit Sedona that had been in the same spot at the edge of the lot the last time he’d been there. He’d addressed the envelope To H.S. only and placed the corner under the wiper blade.
Cam congratulated himself. CPG was gibberish, a red herring, something Harv would puzzle over in private. The soldiers would take the note to Harv, leading Cam right to his target.
His stomach rumbled but he couldn’t think of food now. The gun was tucked beneath the hoodie, the metal warm against his skin. The rough texture of the handle’s side plate had begun to itch.
At one fifteen a white sedan drove by the lot, paused for a second, then continued along. Cam clocked it, watched the car disappear down a side street. Ten minutes later it circled back. This time a man stepped out and walked through the gate of the lot.
This would be the hitter. Cam tried to make out the man among the parked cars. He’d been near death for so long that what chilled him wasn’t the fact the man wished to kill him, but the casual nature of it. Click/bang/over.
Maybe it was over already.
He waited.
Two o’clock, two fifteen, three.
At three thirty a blue van pulled into the lot. Two men exited, both in purple ball caps. Cam watched as they moved down the rows, checking each of the cars that had been parked or abandoned there. They met the hitter, conferred.
At ten to four they returned to the van. All three of them. One clutching the envelope. They drove off, leaving the sedan behind.
Cam scrambled down the rock pile, raced to the Honda and gunned it. He turned onto the same street the van had gone down, spotting them in a lane feeding onto the highway.
They’d call Harv, tell him Cam didn’t show, but they’d found some kind of letter. Harv being cagey, he might ask them to open it and read it to him. Unable to make meaning out of CPG, thinking there must be more to it, he’d tell them to bring it to him to study for himself.
The van pulled off the highway at the exit before White Rock. Cam almost lost them coming out of the merge lane. Weekend traffic to and from the border was heavy.
The gun sat next to him on the seat, shuddering slightly along with the car.
They passed onto Crescent Road, following the Nicomekl beyond a driving range, a Christian camp. This had all been trees eight years ago. Cam could see where the land had been flattened, divided into lots. Billboards proclaimed Future Site Of and some bullshit development’s name. Ocean Drive Villas.
The van pulled into a tract that rose to the left of Crescent Road, the entrance so hidden that Cam missed the turn and, realizing a uey would be conspicuous, drove around till he could double back.
It was a subdivision, or would be in a year. Several cream-coloured duplexes were already up, beyond them the wooden skeletons of their future cousins. Cam saw the van pull into the driveway of Unit 7, disappearing into the mouth of a garage.
It was nearly five o’clock, the sky almost dark. Lights on in the house. No blinds. Cam saw movement, the figures trudging single file through what looked like a kitchen. Stopping as someone met them in the dining area.
The action moved between the windows till Cam couldn’t see anything.
A soft light went on inside the car, and he heard the 8-bit tinkle of a generic ringtone. He stared at the unfamiliar number on his phone. After a minute the words new message filled the screen, along with the graphic of a sealed envelope. He hit playback.
“It’s me, it’s Harv. Guess you couldn’t make it. No worries, brother, it’s better to be safe. Got your message. Who’s this CPG? Hit me back on this number.”
Cam put the phone down. He saw Harv saunter past the window of the duplex, holding something to his ear. Cam’s phone rang again. He turned it off.
Four people in the duplex, at least.
He could lay in wait till nightfall, till they were all sleeping, then break in. Find Harv, kill him, escape. He could lure Harv out, try to shoot him and make a run for the car. He could shoot him from the car—if his aim was better, if luck was on his side, if a million things went just the right way.
He could shoot his way in now.
The more he thought about his options, the more he realized he had none. Any plan was likely to fail. Even if he managed to reach the target, work up his nerve, he’d still have to escape—and a gun was loud enough to make more problems than it solved.
So how, then?
He watched the duplex for an hour as darkness settled and the streetlights in the cul-de-sac lit up. An ambulance passed, no siren or lights. He imagined Harv inside the house, studying the note. His soldiers waiting around him. Who did Harv trust? Who was on board with his plan?
Cam started the Honda and drove back up Crescent Road.
At the turnoff for the highway was a gas station and convenience store that had once been owned by the Reed family. Their second location; Cam remembered seeing flyers for the grand re-opening. It was an Esso now, one frightened uniformed man in the Plexiglas cage.
Cam bought a jerry can and filled it at the pump, paid the man and asked him for matches. Then bought a lighter and a pack of cigarettes so the purchase wouldn’t look suspicious.
“Friend of mine’s car ran out of gas,” he said. “Actually I’m going to light some shit on fire.”
The man in the cage nodded indifferently and rang him up.
* * *
The garage door of the duplex opened. Two men emerged on foot. They saw the blaze and started down the driveway, through the gate, to see what exactly was burning in the middle of Crescent Road.
Cam was already halfway up the block, cutting across the narrow muddy yards, careful with his footsteps. Flags and stakes where cement would be poured. The laneways of the development felt empty and unreal, an amusement park after closing time.
He walked right through the garage door, hit the button to close, then ripped the system from the wall, twisting the wires so that the light on the box went dark.
A minute later the basement door opened and a lanky shirtless white guy in a purple snapback stepped over the threshold. He looked at the panel and paused, eyes popping when he saw the pistol.
Cam put a finger to his mouth, shhh.
He slipped the man’s gun from his belt and had him kneel down. Cam had wondered what to do in this situation—tie him up? Gag him? Kill him quietly?
He struck the man on the back of the neck with the butt of the gun. The man let out a squawk of pain, and Cam hit him again, and a third time, the last catching him on the temple as he turned over. The man lay on the concrete, silent, hopefully unconscious.
Cam flicked on the light. Saw the van, empty. Tools, a car seat, flats of crushed beer cans. He turned the light off and shut the door behind himself.
A car fire only held so much interest. He’d have to hurry.
Up the carpeted steps, quickly, not worrying about sound. He heard Harv’s voice. “The fuck was it, a crash?” The staircase turned and Cam rose out of it, quickly brought the gun’s barrel above the white railing and held it pointed centre mass at Harv.
Genuine shock on the man’s face, which gave Cam a sinister pleasure.
A living room with dining nook, behind him one narrow hallway with a door. Everything beige and new. Cam moved into the room, closed the distance. Harv was in jeans and socks, a white undershirt.
“Wait,” Harv said. “Listen, brother—we can talk. Who’s this CPG?”
His eyes flicked from Cam’s face to something over his shoulder. Someone approaching, or trying to make him think so.
Cam shot him.
Harv spun back, driven down between two lounge chairs. In the room the Magnum’s sound was a terrific roar.
Cam stepped toward the downed man, heard footsteps besides his own. Turned.
Standing naked in the hallway, his enormous pale pink stomach slightly greasy with sweat, was Cody Hayes. Something silver in his hand, arcing down.
Cam didn’t see what struck him, but felt himself falling.
Eighteen
Everyone was stupid, according to Sukhi. Her parents. Harv. Her brother. Cam. They all saw her as shallow and weak. None of them realized her value. When you’re that good at disguising yourself, it works against you.
“It was my goddamn plan,” Sukhi said. “And he just took it, like it was his.”
“Cam did?” Meghan asked, staring into the gun.
“Harv,” Sukhi said. “I just played Cam, in case the others tried to fuck me over.”
“Men, huh?” Meghan said.
As Sukhi paced and monologued, Meghan calculated distances and movements. She watched the gold-tipped fingernail resting inside the trigger guard. The gun bobbed. Sukhi transferred it her left, took a precautionary half step back. Meghan’s hands were still up at shoulder level.
“Harv’s obsessed by this ‘generational wealth’ shit. Meanwhile all his cash is tied up. I bring him this score, he gets cold feet, sends my brother instead. What’s he expect? Stupid.”
“Your brother killed Alexa?” Meghan asked.
“Not saying shit about that.” Sukhi’s eyes focused on Meghan’s holster. “Drop that gun.”
“Why don’t I hand it you? Might go off if it falls.”
“Give,” Sukhi said.
Meghan turned slightly so her hip was closer to Sukhi. Her right hand touched the firing pin, slid off the side of the holster. She fumbled with the snap on the trigger guard.
“Nervous,” she said.
“Here. Hands up.” Sukhi approached, reaching for the holster with her free hand.
Meghan spun, hip-checking her, at the same time locking her arms around Sukhi’s elbow. The .45 went off, ear-splitting, punching into the floor. She bent the elbow and the woman screamed and the pistol clattered to the ground. Meghan drew her own, pointing it at Sukhi’s throat.
“Hands on the top of your head,” she said. “Face down.”
When Sukhi was proned out, searched and cuffed, Meghan allowed herself to crow. “That’s how it’s done.”
* * *
The hard interview room. Sukhi in the corner on a stationary chair, leaning against the white brick. Meghan stood over the table and threw down pictures of Alexa Reed. A candid shot printed from social media. A grinning family photo. The dead girl, burned, her blackened chest sewn up with a post-autopsy Y-scar.
“Who?” Meghan said.
And waited.
Sukhi started from the beginning, with Harv’s defection from the Vipers. His realization that if the League of Nations ever wanted to be more than a feeder gang for the bikers, they needed territory of their own. Income of their own. Her brother had told her of the deals he’d worked for Roger Garrick back in the day.
“Tequila was just a pickup man,” Sukhi said. “He remembered this rich guy was trying to get a casino going before he got killed. So a couple years ago, Tequila finds out this dude’s widow is thinking of doing the same thing. He told me and I told Harv. They approached her to buy in.”
“They dealt directly with her?” Meghan knew Liz Garrick had spearheaded the project, but found it difficult to put the woman directly in business with gangsters. If nothing else, Liz was smarter than that.
“Her people,” Sukhi clarified. “The guy my brother used to pick up from.”
“Richie Reed.”
“Mr. Reed, yeah, Alexa’s dad. Harv got in touch with him. The deal was five million to buy in, but then Mr. Reed started making noise about not wanting to be involved.”
“So what did Harv do?” Meghan asked.
“Ka-boom,” Sukhi said, grinning. “Hit him while he was crossing the road. Harv said just to warn him, but Tequila had that big Nav, knocked him flying. Dude went straight up in the air, pew, like a fat little football.”
Hysterical laughter ended in a coughing fit. Meghan folded her arms and waited.
“Anyway. Tequila was pissed about the damage to his car.”
