Spares. Michael Marshall Smith
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and I picked up a box of large band-aids and a couple of bars of soap. Then after some thought I picked up some disinfectant and the floor cloth that looked least like it was second-hand, before heading down to pay.
At the counter another random loser was stocking up on the necessities of his life. A pack of cigarettes, a bag of dope and a half bottle of Wild Thyme. Looked like he had a perfect evening ahead of him, but maybe not so good a life. I saw a flicker down by the side of the cash register and glanced to see an ancient eight-inch television. It was hotwired to the insides of a CD ROM player that had lost its casing somewhere down the years. An old porn film flickered and hazed on the screen. The customer kept his eyes on the action while the counter man gave him his change, and then left grinning vaguely at a scene still playing in his head.
Nice one, I thought. Skim a buck off every bonehead who's too busy watching the skin, and each day you've got a little something extra for yourself.
I dumped my goods on the counter, running my eyes over what else he had behind there. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing self-evidently dangerous.
‘Have you got a bag for that?’ I asked as he started to ring in the goods.
‘One dollar.’
‘You're kidding me.’
He shrugged, put his hand on the next item and waited, eyebrows raised but not even looking at me. I got out my wallet and put a one on the counter. I had a way to walk.
‘Your fridge is broken,’ I said, looking away from him, wondering what I was doing, why I was rattling this man's cage.
‘It's cold enough outside.’
‘Thought you'd say that.’ I opened the pot of soft cheese. The grunge inside was covered in half an inch of lurid blue mould. The counter man smiled meaninglessly, eyes dead. Even his lips weren't up to the job. The left side of his mouth barely moved, as if there was some deep damage there.
‘So don't eat it.’
‘Where can I buy some real milk?’
‘It's in the fridge.’
‘I'll pass,’ I said, and he got on with making up the bill. Quiet, tinny grunts came from his TV set, and I added: ‘I'll be checking my change.’
‘Sure you will,’ he said, reaching under the counter to bring up a battered brown paper bag. I put my purchases into it, trying to make sure the heavy stuff went at the bottom, like Henna had taught me to. Sometimes things like that swam up through the years. Then on an afterthought I reached behind me and took down a bottle of Jack Daniels. Actually, it wasn't an afterthought. It had been a first thought and an in-between thought. I'd been trying to make it an ex-thought, but something inside me gave up.
The bill came to nearly sixty dollars. I had no obvious way of getting hold of any more cash, and I couldn't use my ownCard without setting off a large flashing sign saying, ‘Anyone interested in bringing unhappiness into Jack Randall's life will find him right here’. But most of the food was concentrate, and we were going to have to eat wherever we went. Running out of money would simply bring the inevitable on a little sooner. I paid the man, picked up my bag, and made for the door.
‘Lieutenant.’
I froze. It was very dark outside, and I could see flecks of cold rain hitting the cracked glass, cutting lines across it.
‘Don't remember me, do you.’
I turned slowly. The man was still standing behind the counter, arms folded. Something almost like life had crept into his eyes when I wasn't looking.
‘Should I?’
‘You put me away.’
Oh shit, I thought. I briefly considered facing him down, but the look in his eyes killed the idea almost before it was born. He'd made me. I looked away and then back, and in that moment realized that the last five years were apt to blow away to nothing, and that in some sense I'd never been away.
‘I probably had a reason.’
‘Three years. That's a long time.’
‘I'm surprised I don't recall the circumstances.’
‘You never met me. I was just a mule.’
I stared calmly back at him, trying to work out how I was supposed to play this. It was the last thing I needed. The very last thing. We looked at each other for a while and I could hear the blood pumping through the arteries in my head. It stepped up a notch when I realized that I was holding the grocery bag in front of me with both arms. He could have had me in pieces before I got my hand anywhere near my jacket pocket.
‘You've bounced back nicely,’ I said eventually.
‘I took someone's fall, and they looked after me. They still do.’ ‘I'm not The Man any more,’ I said, abruptly. His face changed then, as a broad vicious smile spread slowly across it.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘Guess we all heard about that.’
‘You want to say something funny?’ I asked, and his grin dropped. The light went out of his eyes and they went back to looking like two very old coins pressed into dirty white Plasticine. Like so many of his kind his face looked far away and unformed, as if imperfectly glimpsed through a layer of water.
I smiled faintly, nodded, then left. The wind had picked up outside and the rain was turning to sleet. As I stepped out of the store I heard his voice again.
‘Lieutenant,’ he said. I didn't turn round but kept on walking, and the rest of his words were blurred by the sound of the wind and a siren in the distance. ‘Be seeing you.’
When I was round the corner I picked up the pace, swearing dully and repetitively. A quick glance behind showed that no one was following, but that was no consolation. A phone call would be all it took, a phone call from a man so far down the food chain that plankton probably made fun of him behind his back.
All I'd wanted was to sell the RAM and get an hour by myself. It should have been so easy. Most people manage it, just walking around, without bringing grief into their lives. But now we'd been in town less than three hours and trouble was already taking a bead on me. Trouble's always a good shot, and in my case it's got a fucking laser sight. A run-in with an ex-wiseguy and a five thou contract hovering somewhere over my head. Great going, Jack.
Time to get out of town before I slept with God's wife.
The door on the first floor of Mal's building was open, allowing the music from within to really let itself be heard. Two guys were conducting a drug deal in the hall. They glanced quickly at me as I passed, but I shrugged to show I was harmless.
I was wearily trudging up the second flight of stairs, grimly anticipating getting the spares moving again and wondering whether I could impose upon Mal to look after them a little longer while I went to buy a vehicle, when a shot sang through the air past my ear and smashed the shit out of a wall panel behind me.
I dropped to my knees on the stairs, spilling the groceries, fumbling for my gun and trying to work out whether the shot had come from above or below. Another cracking sound and half a yard of banister disappeared, my question answered: the shots were coming from above. My gun finally out, I cranked a shell up into the breach. Footsteps clattered down the stairs and I stepped quickly and quietly back away from them, round the corner – trying to work out what to do, and hoping Mal would hear the shots and come out to help me.
There was a moment of silence, the shooter listening for what I was doing. I poked a foot forward and deliberately pressed a loose board. There was a creak, and then another shot gouged a trail of soggy plaster out of the wall.
I decided what the fuck, ran forward and turned spraying shots upwards as I ran.
Two went wild, another close enough to send the guy back up the stairs. I pressed the advantage, leaping the stairs three at a time, feeling a wavering sight on the back of my neck and brazening it out. I slipped on a wet stair and slid into the wall, saving my life