The Last Bender, Chapter 42

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

          Helen drove me into town. Lives moved in and out of the empty windows and half-demolished walls. A kid washed her doll in an open fire hydrant. She was barefoot and dirty with nowhere to go. I thought of my sister Mary in a little denim dress with her own toothbrush and a bathroom to hang it in. So even a hotel in some border town is a place.

          I told her everything about the lab, the warehouse, the deal with Juice and Stitch. I told her about Church and Laraby and Watts and about the plan to meet with David Watts.

          “I’m gonna tail you to that meet,” she said.

          “You don’t think it’s too dangerous?”

          “Right now, I’m too dangerous, without something to do. If she dies, I’m gonna kill Laraby and Watts.”

          “Laraby won’t be easy.”

          “He’s not my boss. I ain’t afraid of him. And Watts I should have plugged when I had a chance. But when I was in that office of his, I was afraid, and I froze up. Something about the word ‘dog food’ in the mouth of a man who eats shit is threatening.”

          “He was boss enough to kill us both. Drop me off a few blocks shy of Monozone.”

          “O.K.” She kissed me on the mouth. “Be careful, Jack. When it’s all done I’ll get Linda and we’ll go hide out some place nice. A lake, or the ocean.”  

          “I just hope it’s not HavewelL Acres over in Spartan.”

          The steps were empty, polished and grey. The swarm hadn’t left the subways and buses yet. A few workers leaned on their shovels and wiped sweat. They shot the shit with their pals and fussed over lunch buckets a little away from the dayglo pylons marking off the hole. The Board wasn’t ready to meet, they were still in mid air or in a Saigon teleconference. But Laraby was upstairs. He’d kissed his wife Mustafa and their kid Alamo goodbye an hour ago, munching a bacon and cream cheese bagel on the train. His office door was open. He sat stirring a cup of coffee, the newspaper spread before him. Outside the windows, two black bugs a little smaller than bats raced around each other. He looked at me and blinked. “I want off the front page by tomorrow. Look at this god damn thing,” he said, shoving the paper to me. ANOTHER ONE BITES THE DUST read the headline. There were color pictures of Clara Turback’s apartment.

          “You hit Linda and Braque. What’s to stop me blowing your brains out now?”

          He blinked. “I was about to get to that. Sit down. I have a file here.”   He reached into the cabinet behind his desk and took out a file. “These are classified documents that relate to your war service. What’s the statute of limitations on treason, Jack?”

          I sat down.

          “This was all your idea. The whole thing. If we’d handled things my way none of this woulda happened. Make a stink you said. Why did I listen? Why?”

          “Don’t pin it on me.”

          He stood, trembling all over. “This is a job, Jack. You protect this company’s interest. There aren’t any grudges here. This is your last chance. Take care of business.”

          He put a black suitcase up on the desk and snapped it open. Inside was six million bucks in worn bills.

          “Real?” I asked.

          “Bogus. I don’t care about this money but I want the lab notes and I want everyone you find there put on ice. Get those damn notes and blow the place up and maybe we’ll both walk away.”

          “What about Bunuel?”

          “That bastard? Boy did he fuck me up. That little jerk Michael Einzer shows up here with his brains fried. That’s when I knew Juice was bad. I thought I could trust him. But I went over the time cards and sure enough, Juice and Cherry were involved. Never mind about that now. Bunuel’ll get his and so will the other two when the time comes. Let’s go. You take the money. I don’t like the fake stuff. It gives me the creeps.”   He looked at his watch and headed out the door. I ran after him with the suitcase. “We’ll catch Church on the steps if we hurry,” he said in full power bustle. I caught up to him at the elevator. He already had the express key in. We rode to L so fast I choked on a kidney. We zipped through the lobby and out the doors. Even the pigeons avoided us. A black sedan pulled up. Church got out of the passenger side and opened the back door. He reached in and started to struggle with someone, whom he finally managed to drag out.

          It was Bunuel. Church shoved him up the steps towards us, holding a gun to his head, his fish eyes swollen and runny. The workers perked right up when they saw what was happening. They dropped their coffee cups and hard hats to watch. “Git the fuck up these steps,” Church snarled, pushing him harder. Both men tripped and huffed till they were half way up. Church paused to breathe hard. “I brought this for you,” he said.

          We met them in the middle. Bunuel searched me with his grey eyes, trying to figure out if I was with them or if I was a way out. I looked away and he knew I was neither.

          Laraby nodded. “Good. Let’s pay him in full then.”   Laraby kicked him in the stomach and Bunuel dropped to the steps.

          Church shouted, so that all the pigeons deserted the eaves and wheeled around overhead, “You greedy motherfucker, you crossed us up!”   He kicked him in the ass so he was spread out on the steps, face down and gasping. He got to his hands and knees and cursed as loud as he could. He was massive but the strength was kicked right out of him. He wasn’t conceding a thing yet though. He told Laraby to go fuck himself. Just as he got his head up to yell, Church kicked his chin and he jerked up and landed back on the steps. Then Church shot him in the back. Bunuel stiffened and groaned. Then they decided to play with him. They let him struggle up a few steps before putting one in his shoulders. When he got up from that they shot him again, this time in the leg. Each shot sent the pigeons off in circles again. His back was full of holes and blood was spattered on the steps. He grit his teeth and growled and crawled, an inch at a time, towards Laraby, one grey eye locked on his face, hissing, “You I’ll come and get if I have to,” but that was as far as he got. Church shot him again and this time the bullet hit his throat. He coughed and gurgled up blood. I’d had enough. I took out my gun and shot him in the forehead. He went still. It was all over. The gunshot was deeper, more resonant than Church’s. Its echo and blast filled the plaza. Everything stopped. Everyone looked at me.

          I picked up the suitcase and said, “Let’s go.”