Blood Of Angels (7 page)

Hudek shook his head.

'I assumed not. Second issue is supply. Even if you get the cops sweet and put your people in there — and you'll need quite a few, and you'll need good communication, transport and storage facilities, which the cops might even be able to help you with — then you'll have the problem of product. How are you going to finance this? I don't know how much of your allowance you got in that bag there, but it isn't going to cover it.'

Hudek had known this was the tricky part. 'I thought,' he said, 'I thought maybe it could be a pay afterwards kind of deal.'

'Someone lends you the drugs, sees if you can shift them on, if not you give them back with your receipt and their ten per cent? And they turn a blind eye to all the stuff that's missing, the pills and coke your dealers have sucked into their own heads or bartered for fucks on the beach? That really what you thought?'

Hudek shrugged, his face hot. It was, of course.

The man in the chair didn't laugh, but someone in the shadows did.

'Finally,' the man said, 'where were you actually going to find these altruistic benefactors? You go nosing around trying to make contacts down South, Miami gangbangers will have you in pieces before you've opened your mouth. Some of those Cuban homeboys make the Crips look like Martha fucking Stewart.'

'So it was a dumb idea,' Hudek said, deflated. He looked down at his hands.

'No, Lee. It's a
good
idea. It semi-happens already. But it hasn't been done properly, you're right. You'd need a reliable and large-scale supply of drugs, and a way of laundering the money taken. You'd need to take advantage of pre-existing law enforcement relationships and have the wherewithal to refresh those ahead of time. You would need someone to help you avoid stupid mistakes and/or winding up face down in a swamp. You would require serious backers, in other words.'

Hudek looked up. The man was staring at him, hard.

'Backers who trusted you, who knew that you could be relied upon. Who knew you always did what you were told.'

Hudek nodded. He didn't quite trust himself to speak.

'You would need backers, in fact, who might want you and your crew to prove themselves: who might ask you to do them a favour or two first, to show good faith. Do you understand?'

'I think so,' Hudek said. 'What do you want?'

The man smiled. 'We don't need to get into that right now. Soon, but not just at this minute.'

He looked at Hudek a while longer, and nodded. 'Great to see you again, my friend. On the way out you'll be given what you came for. You can take your own bag back with you this time, as a gesture of our good will. Spread the cash around your crew. Make people happy. We'll be in touch soon regarding the other thing.'

Hudek stood up. 'Will I be working with you on it? I mean, direct?'

The man shook his head, and Hudek found himself feeling relieved. 'I'm just a day tripper. Other things I have to do. You'll work with Hernandez. Play nice. Watch and learn. He's good. You can pick up some things. For future positions you might hold.'

He winked. Hudek risked a smile.

The man indicated with his head. Hudek got the message, turned and walked away.

===OO=OOO=OO===

Mr Reynolds was waiting for Lee in the corridor. He led him back out through the building, across the middle of the large room with its dangling lights. Hudek felt lightheaded and shaky and euphoric all at once, and altogether unable to deal with the fact that he was being led out of the building by Stacy and Josh Reynolds' father. He'd blanked this particular piece of weirdness while confronted with the man in the chair. That guy had a way of focusing your attention.

Just before they got to the exit, Mr Reynolds stopped. 'Don't mention my being here,' he said. 'I offer people advice on occasion, that's all. Legal counsel is available to everyone.'

'That's fine, Mr Reynolds.'

'Make sure Bradley understands that too.'

'I will. He does what I tell him.'

Mr Reynolds nodded. 'I'm sure. I'm sure they all do. You don't get the guns back, I'm afraid.' He reached into the shadows and pulled out a small bag. It was bright red and had a white Nike logo on it. 'But this is for you.'

Hudek pulled the bag's zipper back a few inches, and saw it contained the usual mixture but in greater quantity, a real bumper crop. Just at the moment he wasn't equal to working out what precise level of income it all represented. 'Thanks,' he said.

'You're welcome, Lee. But if I
ever
hear you've been selling that shit to my kids, any of it, at all, you'll rue the day you were born.'

Then he turned and walked away.

Hudek walked the last couple of yards and opened the door. Stepped out into the parking lot.

It was still light, which kind of amazed him. He glanced at his watch and saw only thirty-five minutes had passed since they'd pulled up in the car. Unbelievable.

Standing in the middle of the lot were three guys. His guys.

He walked over. Brad looked kind of woozy. Pete and Steve were red around the mouth from where the duct tape had been. All appeared shell-shocked, and quiet, and all were smoking. Just for once, Hudek wished he could join in.

'They told us to wait here,' Pete said. 'Hernandez and the other two fuckheads. They… I don't know. They waited with us for a while and then… just fucking went. The whole thing was seriously fucking odd, dude.'

Brad blinked, seemed to come back into himself. He looked down, realized what was in each of Hudek's hands. He frowned at the red bag. 'You've got the drugs?'

'Yes.'

'And you've still… got the money.'

'Right. It's like, a bonus. It's all cool.'

Brad shook his head. He looked like his brain was in need of a reboot. 'So — then, what the
fuck
was all that about?'

'It's cool,' Hudek repeated. 'That's all I know.'

He led the others out around the side and back onto the road. Lee wasn't actually sure what had just happened. He just knew that he had come through it stronger, and that he was now dealing with a different order of professional. One thing he was absolutely
not
going to do was underestimate the people he had just met. Especially the guy in the chair. The threat he'd made could be interpreted as just being the kind of thing that people said to underline a point. Florid. Movie-speak. But Hudek didn't believe that was the case. He believed the man had meant what he said, would follow through, and had perhaps even understated his intentions.

And he still didn't remember meeting him before.

'I knew something bizarro was going to happen today,' Sleepy said, rubbing his wrists.

'Pete,' Brad said, 'shut up.'

'No, seriously. I had this weird fucking dream just before I woke up. I was in the mall and I went to McD's for lunch. Except it was night, you could tell because the big windows behind where the tables are were dark, but it felt like lunch. And instead of buying like a burger or something, I asked for a salad, which you'll agree is pretty fucked up.'

'Beyond amazing,' Brad said. 'Hold the front page. Alert CNN. That's some crazy shit, bro.'

'No, that's not it. I
asked
for a salad, okay, but they didn't give me a salad. They gave me this huge bag of Fritos. And I enjoy potato chips
more
than the next guy, but I didn't want any right then. I wanted a fuckin' salad. And so I said, jeez, hand over the green shit, dude — what's your fucking problem? And this guy who was serving just kind of smiled at me, and he didn't look like your normal server droid, he was much older with grey hair and he was big and he looked kind of weird and scary. He took the chips back though, and handed me a McD bag, folded over. I walked away and then suddenly I was in the parking lot and I opened the bag and saw it
still
wasn't a fucking salad.'

'What was it?' Brad asked, despite himself.

Hudek tuned them all out, gazing up the street into the Valley, savouring the moment, knowing it was here and now where his life kicked into a higher gear. It was already hard to believe what had happened back inside the building, in fact it too felt a little like a dream or something he'd watched on TV — but the bags he held in each hand said it was not.

'Apple pie,' Pete said. 'I wasn't going to go all the way back in the mall to sort it out, so I just opened it and took a bite. But the filling was all red. And it was absolutely freezing cold.'

Brad stared at him. 'That's it? That's
it
?'

Suddenly all their cell phones started ringing at once.

'Okay,' Hudek said. 'The customers are getting restless. Let's get it on.'

===OO=OOO=OO===

Back inside the building, the other men had stepped once again out of the shadows. Someone flicked a switch and the room was bathed in light.

'He'll be fine,' the man in the chair said. He stood up, slowly, stretching his shoulders and back. 'But tweak him anyway. Then we're good to go.'

Jim sat at a table in the window of a place called Marsha's, in South Carolina. He had followed 95 up as far as Savannah and fifteen miles north from there made the turn-off onto 321. He had made slow progress all the way from the Keys, and already taken a day longer than the journey merited. Had stayed in the slow lane of the freeway all the way north, just another grey-haired guy in an old car, the kind you whip past on your way to somewhere or other. At first this had been partly because it was a long time since he'd made such a drive: he'd barely used the car in the last eight years, except on local grocery runs. He soon got used to the sensation of road passing under the tyres again, however, and could not blame caution for his speed. Nor sheer perversity, though that was also a factor.

Heavy clouds were gathering overhead. It was only just after five o'clock, and yet outside all was muted and dark. The word at the counter, which Jim could hear without effort, was that they were going to see some serious rain this evening, and it was about time.

The waitress came by and refilled his coffee without asking. He smiled, and she smiled back, and then waddled off to perform some other kind deed. Jim watched her reflection recede in the table's napkin dispenser. Her hair was dyed a funny shade or two of lurid blonde and had she been a refrigerator you could have stored a lot of food inside. And yet there was something very appealing about her, something true about her ordinariness. Strange how it could be that way. Good, capable hands and a nice attitude made more difference than people thought. Jim realized, with mild wonder, that it had been over a decade since he'd had sex. The thought brought him little but relief.

He stirred a spoonful of sugar into the brew and looked out the window a while longer. It was coming down to it, now. He had dragged his feet, made as if coming north meant fighting some natural slope in the landscape which his car was not equal to. Now he was only an hour or so from his first destination, and it was time to stop pretending. He was going where he was going, unless he stopped now. There were miles still to drive, but they were getting fewer. This was the time, this lacuna. If he was going to not do something, now was the time to start not doing it.

The feeling in his guts was one he recognized. A hollow tension, so muted it could perhaps be hunger. He glanced at the menu propped up against the sill and rejected its contents once more. He knew he should have something to eat. Someone two tables over had taken a corned beef sandwich a little while back and it had smelled fine, the bread lightly toasted, sauerkraut warm and rich, the sauce good and thick the way Jim liked it. He had always had very specific tastes in food. Maybe if he ate, the feeling would go away.

Did he want that?

He did not know. He truly did not know.

So he sipped his coffee until it was finished and then left, leaving a dollar tip on a dollar fifty purchase, hoping it went to the right waitress.

When he got back in the car he noticed the bag on the passenger seat, and was confused for just a moment. Of course. He barely remembered buying the contents, at an outlet mall a little south of Jacksonville. But he had bought it, he knew, just as he had acquired a much heavier item before even leaving the Keys, and so he supposed that meant he had made his decision.

And it didn't matter anyway. It had already been made for him. The sphere turns, and the heart pumps and blood flows, regardless of what you feel on the subject.

===OO=OOO=OO===

Eighty miles up the way he took the turn to Benboro. He took a wrong fork soon after that and had to retrace a little. It was not an area he knew well, nor one which made great effort to make things easier for outsiders. People would only ever be passing through. There were patches of anonymous woodland now and then but usually the land was flat either side of the road.

After Benboro it was simpler — there was only one road out of the town, such as it was. A mile along it was a big tilted sign on the right. It had been pale green last time Jim saw it, but in the intervening years it had been repainted red: some while ago, judging by the state of it. It looked as though the job had been done by someone who was dimly familiar with letters as shapes, rather than as things that conveyed meaning.

BENBORO PARK, they said.

He pulled over and headed up the access road. He had known it would still be here: impulse calls once every couple of years had proved someone still answered the phone at the number for the trailer park. He had not stayed on the line long enough to find out if it was the old woman he had met, or to ensure the park itself was still in business. People lived there, had done so for years. There was no reason for it to go under, turning families and old couples and wild-haired single individuals out into the unknown. Benboro town itself had the dynamism of an old sock. Nobody was going to be developing subdivisions or building a business park outside it anytime soon.

And what was it to him, anyway?

Yet still he had called, every couple of years.

The drive took a curving path that had probably looked artful on the original plan, scrawled on an envelope in some long-ago developer's office shack, but in the real world was just plain long-winded. By halfway along you could see the unlovely sprawl of the sixty or so trailers in sixty or so different designs and states of repair. Unlike many such facilities, the roads they were situated on did not follow a simple grid. The guy with the envelope evidently had a taste for the ornate. Jim imagined this made finding a particular resident far from easy, which probably had both bad and good sides. Luckily he knew exactly where he was going. On the far side of the park, over where a stand of trees marked the beginning of a forty-yard strip of waste ground which led down to the bank of a featureless river, was a line of four low wooden buildings. They were very large, ramshackle. Two were used to store old junk and materials relevant to the maintenance of the park. The others were partitioned into storage areas which were for hire.