Ballet Shoes and Engine Grease (25 page)

“
He has a gun,” she whispered.

“
Quiet,” Ray snapped. His voice was like a
dart—swift and sharp.

She watched as the agile, athletic figure
clad in black skirted the parking lot, keeping to the shelter of
the surrounding trees. Another shaft of moonlight illuminated his
face. A face with a slim, newly grown moustache that added glamour
to the handsome features.

Jorge
. Crimson bit her lip not to say it out loud. Of
the three directors, he was the most fun. Did his flirty, cocky
manner mask ambition so fierce it stopped at nothing? Had all those
teasing smiles, all those boisterous, silly jokes been a
lie?

Ray uncurled from his crouch. “Stay out of
sight,” he ordered and slid out, silent as a shadow.

In the meantime, Jorge had continued his
journey around the parking lot. Now he burst into a quick dash
across the open expanse between the trailer and the bicycle shed,
and flung his body inside through the entrance. He tripped over
Crimson and crashed to the floor, emitting a groan.

“
Be quiet,” she whispered, tugging at his
sprawled leg.

Jorge scrambled into a sitting position.
“What the fu—?”

Ray slipped back inside.
“Shut up or I’ll have to shoot
you.”

Jorge glanced up
and grinned. “Bullet in the brain? Is that a new
fringe benefit?”

Peter guf
fawed. Ray silenced him with a glare.

Jorge swept his gaze around the
bicycle shed, took in the
concrete floor, the gray cinderblock walls, the narrow gap between
the top of the wall and the corrugated iron roof. His survey came
to a halt at the open entrance that had no door blocking access.
“If more people have the same idea,” he muttered, “we’ll be like
sardines in here soon.”

Ray shoved his gun in the holster.
“No talking. And put that thing
away.”

“
It’s not real.” Jorge stuffed the pistol
in the waistband of his snug black pants.

Ray cursed
, rolling his eyes. “Save me from a bunch
amateurs.”

“
Ssshhhh
,” Crimson hissed. “Pay attention. He’s
here.”

The man
wore camouflage. Muscular body in combat gear,
face smeared dark, cap pulled low over his head, the intruder
drifted across the landscape like a ghost.
Not an amateur, this
one
, flashed through
Crimson’s mind. As inevitable as a train gliding along the railway
tracks, he proceeded to the trailer that rose in the middle of the
parking lot like a gigantic sugar cube. He lifted a hand, pressed
something to the wall.

Ray sprang up
and yelled, “Put your arms above your head!” He
rushed forward, holding out the gun with both hands. The figure in
camouflage dove to the ground, rolled over twice, surged to his
feet and vanished behind the corner of the trailer.

Recognition sliced through Crimson. His
movements, quick but smooth, seemed familiar. How many times had
she seen those brawny arms fling out beside her in the car,
flashing to the rescue just as she was about to crash into
something?

Hank?
Tears welled in her eyes. Of all the directors,
he’d been her enemy to start with, but they’d warmed up to each
other. Damn, she’d almost come to look upon him as some sort of a
father figure. Had he been playing her? Gaining her
trust?

Ray set off in pursuit
around the trailer. A gruff, masculine
voice rumbled in the darkness, bringing the aging security guard to
a halt. “Don’t be a fool, Ray,” Hank bellowed in the silent night.
“You’re no match to me. I’m not coming out unless you promise to
put your weapon away. Don’t touch the transmitter I attached to the
trailer.”

Five seconds later, Ray and Hank walked up
through the darkness. Hank did not make a sound.
Ray’
s footsteps echoed
in irritable
I-can’t-take-this-farce-anymore
thuds.

Peter sounded cheerful. “Now that we’re
all here, we can discuss replacing the overdraft with a short term
loan.”

Jorge let out a groan of
protest.

Hank raked a smug look around the
cinderblock shed. “What are you bumbling idiots doing here?” His
steel-blue eyes flashed in the blackened face. “I’ve got the
perimeter wired and a transmitter mounted on the trailer. Ray has
two security cameras focused on the parking lot. Why don’t we all
go into the cafeteria and have coffee while we wait for something
to happen?” He smirked at them. “Something real, not a bunch of
fools playing soldiers.”

“
Stop showing off,” Jorge complained. “We
all know that you used to kick ass in the marines.”

Peter sprang u
p to his feet. “About the overdraft…”

By the thin beam
s of their collection of flashlights, they trooped
into the cafeteria. Crimson’s heart beat in joyful leaps. She’d
been a fool to suspect Peter, or Jorge, or Hank. Thank heavens
there was not a traitor among them. As Oscar Wilde might say, to be
betrayed by one person she trusted—Nick, that is—might be regarded
as a misfortune, to be betrayed by several looked like
carelessness.

****

The thick, sludgy coffee Crimson served
with the
express purpose
of keeping them awake seemed to work. They waited, passing the time
with small talk, ganging up on Peter to stop the conversation from
turning into a management meeting. Almost an hour later, something
in Hank’s army fatigues started bleeping. He shoved a black-smeared
hand into a pocket, leaving a streak of body paint on the fabric.
The man didn’t go for half measures, Crimson thought as she
inspected his clothing. He looked ready to invade a small
country.

“
He’s breached the perimeter,” Hank
informed them.

Following his silent gestures and soft
commands,
Jorge turned
off the big flashlight they’d used to navigate around the dark
cafeteria. Ray pulled out his gun. Peter held the door ajar to let
Hank and Ray slip out first. The rest of them followed.

“
False alarm,” Ray said. “It’s the night
security guard.”

“
Quiet,” Hank whispered. “Nobody
move.”

The moon was out
in full now, the clouds dispersed, and they had a
good view of the guard in his blue uniform as he strolled across
the parking lot.

“
What’s that in his hand?” Crimson said. “A
bottle of water?”

Hank nudged her
aside, ushering her behind the others. “No one
carries a two liter bottle on their rounds,” he told her. “They
carry a small bottle and keep refilling it.”

Crimson crept forward again, refusing to
be treated like a fragile female. She saw the guard come to a halt
by the trailer. He unscrewed the cap, lifted the bottle toward his
mouth and tipped his head back, as if to drink, but his head made
small, jerky movements while he scanned his surroundings to make
sure he was alone. Then, fast as a lizard, he darted forward,
upended the bottle, and started pouring the contents along the base
of the trailer.

“
Freeze,” Ray yelled. “Hands above your
head.”

The guard
dropped the bottle and snapped up straight. One of
his hands darted into a pocket, came out again. A silver cigarette
lighter glinted in the moonlight. Then, with a clang and a whoosh,
the security lights attached to the roof of the factory came on,
their golden beams piercing the darkness, illuminating the security
guard, like a solo dancer on the stage.

Crimson recognized him. He was the dark,
short and stocky one, the one who had bad skin and puffed up
features. Squinting against the bright light, he raised his hand.
The lighter clicked, sent out a flicker. He stood there, unmoving,
the small flame fluttering in the chilly night breeze.

“
No,” Crimson yelled. “Don’t.”

He ignored her. Instead,
h
is gaze followed Hank,
who was easing forward, hands held out before him, palms out, in a
calming gesture that contrasted with his militant, battle ready
posture. “Come on, son,” Hank was saying. “We can sort this out.
Nobody needs to get hurt.”

“
What the fuck do you know?” the guard said
in an angry snarl.

“
I know more than you do, son.”

“
Fuck you.” The guard dropped to his knees
and held the flame to the fuel he’d poured out on the ground. A
wall of fire shot up, an explosion of orange light that for a
second cut through the night darkness.

Beside
the fireball, the guard rolled over on the tarmac, his body
in a tight coil. Sprinting up to his feet, he set off at a fast
run, but he stumbled and fell, landing with a hard thud, face down,
arms spread out. Flames licked at the legs of his blue
uniform.

Behind Crimson came
yelling voices and the sound of running
feet. She tried to control her breathing, tried to keep it even.
She saw Jorge and Peter rush past her, each carrying a fire
extinguisher. Working together, they quickly put out the flames
that found no fuel in the metal structure of the trailer once the
gasoline fumes had burned out.

The guard sprawled
on the ground, foam coating his legs.
Crimson hurried over to join the men clustered around him. The
smells of gasoline, of burning fabric, and the sharp, chemical odor
of the foam mixed in her lungs. Breathe. Breathe. Her fingers
curled around the inhaler in her pocket, but her throat didn’t
swell up, and her chest didn’t tighten.

Hank poked
at the fallen man with the toe of his combat boot.
“‘Who are you?” he bellowed. “What are you up to?”

“
You bastards.” The man scrambled up to a
sitting position. He puckered his mouth to work up saliva and spat
over his shoulder. His eyes sought out Peter, and then darted to
Crimson. “American company. American cars. That’s what you tell the
public. Hell, soon there’ll be nothing American about them but your
lies.” He dashed his hand across his mouth. “Ever heard of Thornley
Electric? Hmm? Ring any bells? Hmm?”

Hank spoke
, his tone calm. “I know the name. We dealt with
them until this year, when we switched to a Japanese company.
Cheaper, better, and faster. Thornley Electric kept missing
delivery dates.”

“
No loyalty.” The security guard jutted out
his chin. “That’s what my father said. Do you know what happened to
him? Hmm? He lost his business. Lost his house.” His heavy features
drew into an ugly snarl. “I blame you. All of you.” He spat again,
the globule of saliva reaching far enough to land on Crimson’s
black Reeboks.

Something cold and hard gathered inside
her. It wiped out all compassion, every trace of sympathy. It
swelled up from thousands of days of bleeding feet, hundreds of
disappointments. Of dead hopes, of failed dreams.

She stepped closer. Hank put out a hand to
stop her, but she brushed him aside.
“No,” she told him. “Let me say my piece.” She
glanced over to Ray, who stood to one side, the sidearm still in
his hand. “Cover me,” she ordered. “Shoot, if he does anything
stupid.”

The guard looked belligerent.
“I’m not armed.”

“
Good,” Ray said. “Then I don’t have to
worry about you shooting back at me.”

Crimson waited until she stood
almost
on top of the
security guard. She scowled down at him. Waves of anger roiled like
a storm inside her, and some of it had nothing to do with the man
sitting on the ground. “I’m a ballet dancer,” she told him. “For
every role, I have to audition with a hundred other hopefuls. If
someone is better than me, I don’t get the job. If someone’s
appearance fits the part better than mine, I don’t get the job. If
someone is friends with the producer, or the star, or the director,
I don’t get the job. Every day of my career, I put myself on the
line, for rejection, for failure, time and time again. That’s life.
Why should your father’s business be exempt from having to measure
up? No one is. If someone is better than you, they take your place.
Grow up. Live with it, like the rest of us do.”

The guard said
nothing but she could see that she’d gotten to
him. He was blinking, looking sullen, his small, protruding eyes
refusing to connect with hers.

Hank gave the guard
another nudge with his boot. “What do you
want to do with this piece of shit, Crimson?”

She turned to Peter.
“How does it work with the
insurance?”

Peter replied promptly.
“The security company was negligent. Our
insurance company will insist that their insurance company covers
the damage. It may take months to resolve. Years, if it goes to
litigation. Too late to help us inside this financial
year.”

“
How much do we pay for the night guard?”
she asked.

“
Around twenty-five thousand a
month.”

“
Fine.” Crimson addressed her words to the
security guard. “For ten months, that’s a quarter of a million,
about half the value of the damaged cars. If you can convince your
bosses to reimburse every penny we’ve paid since the start of the
year, we’ll let you go. They can decide what to do with you, and
they can sort it out with the insurance company. Otherwise, we’ll
call the cops, here and now.” She pointed to his radio. “Start
talking. I expect you’ll need to get a lot of people out of bed.”
She raked a tired smile at the men around her. “Let’s go and make
more coffee. It’s going to be a long night.”