Authors: Eric Pete
Frostbite (6 page)
Thing is, I would never trust her. Especially after this fiasco.
“Ivan’s free,” I offered succinctly. An arrow always notched in my bow and ready for release, this one sprang free. Found its target. You just have to know where to aim and when to strike.
“What?” Sophia asked as she suddenly flinched. She backed away enough to look me in my puffy, bruised face. I wouldn’t believe me either.
“Ivan’s free,” I repeated, striking her with the name of the man responsible for her first stint in jail. A man she’d once admitted she’d do anything for. Her first love, as delusional as it was. I continued while still lucid, “Released from prison last month. Word is he’s looking for you, too.”
“So,” she said with a shrug. “That’s been over. I’m my own woman now.”
“It was only over as long as he was behind bars. But now he’s free. Aren’t you happy? Didn’t he used to make you cum like no other?” I asked, reflecting on a once truth for her that she’d revealed.
“Stop being a bastard.”
“Hurting people’s my specialty. Remember?”
“Yeah. Because you left your poor broken heart back in Dallas. And probably your nuts, too,” she retaliated with a grenade to my arrow. Even threw in a fake boohoo sob face to further irk me. “Since you can’t pretend to be an author anymore, do you still spy on her like a lovesick little boy?”
“Don’t go there,” I said. “Look. Cops are comin’. And you went and
bodied
someone back at the hotel. Doubt this ends good. So just go.”
bodied
someone back at the hotel. Doubt this ends good. So just go.”
“As much as you’ve pissed me off, I can’t leave you like this.”
“I’ll be fine. Work better on my own anyway. Now go. You got time to drive to Tampa for that flight.”
I shut my eyes, letting the medicine take hold. Easier that way as our partings were usually more acrimonious. When I opened them again, Sophia had gone.
“Sir, where is your wife?” my nurse asked as she returned to the room, half expecting to argue with a defiant Sophia. Instead she got only me. Minus Sophia’s static, had a chance to study her some more. “The police want to speak with her,” she said as she checked her watch and then pulled back my sheet to observe my wound. When she did, I took her hand.
“Can I let you in on a secret?” I asked her, summoning my strength to appear more coherent as I gazed into her engaging brown eyes.
“Yes,” she replied, somehow still drawn to me despite my rough circumstances. I smiled appreciatively.
“Y’see ... that woman’s not my wife. And you’re not going to believe what I’m about to tell you,” I spun in her willing ear as I leaned in.
And with that, I had my way out of here as I began concocting a story that would ensure her cooperation to help me escape the hospital ... and the police.
For I am not only Proteus, wearer of many forms ...
I’m Loki, trickster and teller of many lies.
6
A Month Ago The Bronx
I waited for the NYPD cruiser to turn onto Roosevelt Avenue then began waving my arms. I was sure they were tired of seeing me. I’d become a fixture on the streets around here, offering to do odd jobs and storefront window washing in exchange for money, meals, or whatever.
“Yo, you got some change, my man?” I asked of the officer as he pulled curbside.
“What for?” he asked, rolling his eyes at his partner who seemed bored with the day’s routine.
“Wanna get somthin’ from Latin Kitchen. A nice meal for a change. Maybe meet a pretty lady, y’know,” I replied with a shitty grin from behind the false teeth meant to look like I was missing a few of my own.
The officer shook his head while looking at his partner. “Don’t think they’re gonna let you in there with the way you’re dressed ... or the way you smell. Bro, you got nothin’ better to do than hustle on this corner? Don’t make me pick you up for harassing people,” he admonished while slipping me a dollar bill. Ronnie Dexter was his name. He’d been on the force for five years. Married with two kids. But was fucking this Dominican hairdresser over at Sophie’s Set & Style on Tremont Avenue.
“I’m harmless, my man. No worries, no hassles.”
“Keep it that way. Seen anything we should know about?” Officer Dexter asked. Anything from 5-0, even if just a dollar, came at a price.
“Nope. And that’s why I like it around here. Nice friendly folk. No trippin’ off a brother down on his luck,” I answered. “Did I tell you about when I was in the army? Could tell you some stories ’bout chaos.”
“Yeah, yeah. You told us alllll about that,” he said, cutting me off. “Think about getting your life together, my man. Okay?”
“Next time I’m at the V.A. hospital, I’ma ask ’em ta help me with that, Officer Dexter,” I said with a subservient bow of my head.
The squad car left me to make its rounds, which included a left turn that would take them in front of a certain Dominican beauty shop. I’d barely stepped back onto the curb when I bumped into a passerby. Far from the talkative sort, he carried a grocery bag from the corner deli and meat market.
“Excuse me, sir. Got any change you can spare? Jus’ wanna get a bite to eat. No alcohol or nothin’, I promise,” I spit out before he could get clear of me. I say spit out because I literally was hurling spit through my misshapen teeth.
“Yeah, yeah. Here,” he said, hastily digging in his pocket to fish for loose change. When he couldn’t find any, he gave me a dollar. Now I’d made two in less than ten minutes. Maybe there was a career for me in panhandling after all.
“Thank you, sir. I sho do appreciate that,” I said, grinning wildly again at the short man who wanted nothing more than to get back inside his basement apartment and quietly hole up below ground for another week. He wore a cheap black wig and an even cheaper orange spray tan coated his skin, his face two shades darker than his hands. This is what his life had come down to.
Running into me in the Bronx.
Two of us out here pretending to be something we weren’t.
Except for me; this was my life—deception and mis-truths.
Looking over my shoulder, I staggered down the street talking to myself. When I got to Tremont, I retrieved a pristine Bluetooth from my dirty, worn pockets and placed it in my ear. From the tattered jacket I wore, I pulled out a cell phone that looked like I’d stolen it. I dialed the single number programmed in and removed my false teeth to speak more clearly.
“Put him on the phone,” I said to the exotic feminine voice that answered. Followed that up with a few coughs to clear my throat. Had been talking in that raspy manner for so long that my own vernacular and tone felt foreign. Like I had to learn to be me again.
Whoever that was.
“He’s sparring. May I ask whose calling?”
“No. He’ll know. He’s been waiting.” Of course he was. This number was only to be used by me and him. Per my instructions from the day I took this job.
Over a month ago.
God, I needed a shower.
Followed by a nice distraction of the female kind.
After a delay of about a minute, he came to the phone. Just when I was about to hang up. Couldn’t risk a sudden change of heart or a trace of this call.
“Took you long enough. Thought you’d run off with my money. Shit like that don’t come easy,” Arturo Diaz, the world’s reigning welterweight champion from Spanish Harlem, remarked in a winded manner.
“You know better than that. Results take time.”
“So you found the right car?”
“Yep. Black minivan. Just like you wanted. Didn’t have to go out of town, either.”
“For real?”
“
Sí
. Right across the Throgs Neck Bridge.”
Sí
. Right across the Throgs Neck Bridge.”
“Shit,” he mouthed in almost a whisper. “You found it in the Bronx? On that end? I’ll be damned. You sure you can’t just—”
“No. What you paid me was a finder’s fee. I found the right one. I’ll leave the customization to you.”
“Where in the Bronx?”
“Get your detail people on the road now. Have them ready to pick it up. When I hang up, I’ll text you the address and all you need. It’s dusty, so I’d stay away personally if I were you. Let them fix it up while you keep on sparring for your big fight. You wouldn’t want to be seen in a minivan anyway.”
“You did it. You fuckin’ did it,” he muttered with a deep sigh. “Thank you, man. I—”
Time was up for the call. On the line too long. And no need getting all mushy over what was going to be far from sweet and sentimental.
But retribution rarely is.
A black minivan was our code. Black for the color of death or a hearse. Minivan ... for something associated with kids.
Larry Roth, the man hiding out here on the south-east side of the Bronx, was infamous. Had kidnapped Arturo’s little sister last year. Around the same time as I was getting shot down in Florida because of Sophia. Anyway, Roth kept her in a hidden room in his basement for over a week. The bastard raped her repeatedly until, one day, she miraculously escaped. Made the news even where I was convalescing in the Bahamas. Most thought he’d fled into Canada through upstate New York. Not long after all legit leads on Larry dried up, I got the call. People knew how to get in touch with me ... or rather the person or persons they thought I was. Few know the true me.
And as one in my past found out, to truly know me is to hate me.
I’m paid to destroy people’s lives, but this job was slightly different.
A life had already been destroyed by that monster back there, a white man pretending to be a brown man so as to hide in plain sight. Desperate, depraved motherfucker.
Who knows how many others had run into him before Arturo’s sister?
No child was safe.
They were the only ones worth saving.
I would’ve done this job for free.
Maybe.
But one month’s work for a cool million upfront wasn’t too shabby.
I texted Arturo the address where Larry Roth was hidden, completing my end of the deal. His people would swoop in to exact revenge for innocence stolen and the world would be none the wiser that a sick man no longer dwelled among the living.
From out of a nearby storm drain, I fetched a waterproof bag I’d stowed that held a pair of Under Armour running shoes. An idiosyncrasy I’d developed in the town that gave me my name. Had been caught off guard that time in the desert. Had to run for my life barefooted. A bad time.
But never again.
Ditching my old, worn props, I quickly donned the comfortable shoes then set off on my trek, the neighborhood bum suddenly darting and dashing like someone ten years his junior. I ran as fast as I could, taking a shortcut through Saint Raymond’s Cemetery en route to the Public Self Storage on Bush Avenue. Inside one of their prepaid storage units, a motorcycle, ID, and change of clothes awaited.
And just like Larry Roth, a cheery, snaggletoothed homeless man would never be seen again after today either.
For not only was I patient.
I was prepared.
7
Freshly shaven and sporting a designer suit, I walked briskly through Midway. I’d just touched down in Chicago from Newark and taken a cab over from O’Hare. Another airline, another identity. While heading toward my gate for the Southwest flight to Oakland, I reached into my jacket pocket. Sifted through my multiple SIM cards and retrieved the carefully marked one I was looking for. Not breaking my stride, I switched it to my other pocket where I swapped it out with a different SIM card inside my cell.
When I stopped to review the overhead departure schedule, I placed a call.
“Yo. Who this?” Francis Martin Quinones, the head valet attendant at the Stratus hotel in Las Vegas, answered. Two hours ahead, so probably hadn’t left for work yet.
“Uptown callin’,” I replied, donning the voice I used whenever I dealt with him. Francis not only funneled business my way, like he did with the Arturo Diaz job, but had helped me on a previous job in Vegas. Dude really thought I was from Harlem. And with him being from Queens by way of the Bronx, it didn’t hurt to keep up the illusion.
“Hey! What’s goin’ on, my man?” Frankie the valet enthusiastically responded. “Thought something had happened to you ’n’ shit.”
Ignoring his concern, I pressed on. “Nah. I’m good. Hey. That key I left you. Greyhound bus station on South Main. Locker number 237. Got it?”
“No shit?”
“Yeah. I’m serious. A token of appreciation. You deserve it for makin’ that connect. Looks like you might be outta the valet business, son.”
“Furreal? Thank you! Thank you! Thank you for takin’ this job. You’s a bad motherfucka, yo! Off top! We need ta go out fer drinks or somethin’, my man. Or at least let me take ya to the strip club. When you comin’ back to Vegas?”
As I approached my next gate, and too many nearby ears, I wrapped up the love fest. “Thanks, but I got some other work to put in right now. Gonna have to catch you later.”
Something had me feeling off though. Years of instincts built up like a scab, but couldn’t put my finger on it. Bothered me enough that I stopped in the restroom, rechecking my ID in the stall and ensuring no followers before exiting.
Confident that my shit was tight, I joined the group of flyers waiting for their rows to be called. Could’ve easily left the airport and snagged a rental car instead. Just me and the open road with Sirius XM if I so chose. But my sudden departure may have attracted unwanted attention that I’d only imagined until this point. All I had to do now was to breathe easy and enjoy the flight to Oakland. Then a drive up I-5 to Seattle and it would be all good.
“First time flying?” the middle-aged businessman shuffling beside me asked in his even Midwestern cadence. The witty flight attendant on the mic had just called the group ahead of me. By the way we were both hovering, letting others move in front, he probably was boarding next as well.
“No. Have a sick aunt in Tennessee who’s on my mind,” I replied on a whim. Damn me for letting someone try to read my mind. Must’ve stood out by my body language.
“Oh. I am so sorry,” he offered, feeling sufficiently bad for intruding on my conflicted thoughts. “Didn’t mean to be all in your business.”
“That’s quite all right, sir,” I replied, a bit of Southern drawl creeping in now as the flight attendant called on our batch of seats for boarding.
Found my way easily to an empty seat in row fifteen. Seat C. After stowing my single carry-on bag in the overhead, I hung my noise-cancelling headphones around my neck. Prepared for whenever we’d be free to use approved electronic devices
.
Except, as ordinary as mine looked, with a flip of the switch in the opposite direction, mine would amplify external sounds through its microphone rather than muffle them. Spying on others’ conversations while I pretended to sleep was always an amusing distraction. For you never know when a borrowed portion of someone else’s life might be of use.
.
Except, as ordinary as mine looked, with a flip of the switch in the opposite direction, mine would amplify external sounds through its microphone rather than muffle them. Spying on others’ conversations while I pretended to sleep was always an amusing distraction. For you never know when a borrowed portion of someone else’s life might be of use.
No one else was seated next to me, giving me an unobstructed view of the tarmac as the cabin doors shut and we were told to turn off our phones. Once the plane cleared the gate, I finally eased back into my seat, letting the tension ebb from my muscles as some clumsy freestyle explaining the different ways to kiss your ass good-bye in the event cabin pressure was lost blared over the intercom. After a delay of several minutes, we began taxiing for takeoff. Oakland and a rental car under yet another name awaited me.
The woman seated in the row in front of me made the sign of the cross then closed her eyes, a silent prayer for a safe flight no doubt. While she relied on her beliefs, I focused on my belief in myself. Discretely counted the number of passengers along with the flight attendant who, when finished, quickly scurried to her seat in the front of the plane for takeoff. The rev of the engines as we entered onto the runway for takeoff, led me to don my headphones.
Then, just as the plane entered onto the final runway for takeoff, their power was cut.
“Aww, what the fuck?” an older man at the back of the plane with zero patience blurted out. The random groans throughout the cabin were in agreement.
“‘Wanna get away,’ my ass,” someone else with a sense of humor added. I removed my headphones, expecting some news.
And it came.
“Uh ... ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking,” the monotone voice rumbled over the plane’s intercom system. “I sincerely apologize for the delay, but our flight has been diverted momentarily for further screening. Nothing to be alarmed about and I’m sure everything will be done to assure we’re back on our way as soon as possible and that all connections in Oakland are made. Thank you in advance for your cooperation and patience.”
Announcement made me check my boarding pass yet again. Pretended I was worried about missing a connection when I really just making sure my role was memorized for whatever was to come. The plane moved along at a mechanical crawl, coming to a maintenance hangar where law enforcement vehicles and airport equipment surrounded the exterior. Some of the other passengers saw this too and began panicking. Whispers about terrorist plots beginning to percolate as the stepped-up security rattled them. At the front of the cabin, I watched the head flight attendant receive her orders via radio, nodding to whatever she was hearing. As I began keying in on the exit doors, I also watched for something unusual from my fellow passengers that I’d taken for granted. Maybe it was just the bags that needed to be rescreened, but I doubted it.
The main cabin door opened, allowing a single TSA agent to come aboard. He met with the captain first then explained further what the flight attendants needed to do. No guns were drawn. Maybe something minor after all.
“Attention, everyone,” she announced. “We’ll need y’all to deplane with your bags as you would as if exiting at your destination. Keep in mind that you’ll be exiting down a set of stairs, so be careful. Let’s keep it orderly so we can be back underway as soon as possible.”
When it came time for my row’s exodus, I retrieved my carry-on and followed the procession from the plane. When I emerged at the top of the airstairs, I noticed the heightened security below. Two armed men at the bottom and a whole detail separating the passengers into smaller groups that were being wanded with handheld metal detectors while dogs sniffed at their bags.
I descended the stairs into their midst, anxious as to how this shit was going to play out.
“Any idea how long this is going to take?” I asked as I flippantly handed my bag and boarding pass receipt over then checked my watch. “I have a wedding party to attend in Napa and I’m the best man.”
“Not too long, sir,” the overly polite brother towering over me replied. “And we’ll do everything we can to get you back in the air in no time.”
One of the TSA workers stood out. He was supposed to be searching another passenger’s bag. But his eyes were steady on me from his peripheral vision, while faking a rummage through her Louis Vuitton.
And he looked nervous. Triggered those hairs on the back of my neck as I began calculating how far I could get before they caught me.
Not far by my estimation.
I leaned in toward my handler. Lowered my voice to barely a whisper, hoping to sow chaos once more. “Bro, I didn’t want to say this onboard the plane, but ... I think I heard somebody say something was up with the Middle Eastern man in row thirty. Now I got nothin’ against those people, but if there’s something wrong on this flight then ...”
“One-way ticket,” he said to himself while perusing my boarding pass. Doing like he was trained. Focus on the thing at hand no matter how much background chatter I was providing. “That’s one of our red flags. Sir, if you could just head over there with your bag for further screening, we’ll be sure to address any issues there might be with row thirty.”
“See that you do,” I said as I gave him a firm handshake and walked off. He was right. One-way tickets always commanded more scrutiny since 9/11. At least the office where I was directed might give me more options if I needed to cut and run.
Besides, the one I’d caught eyeing me no longer seemed concerned. Maybe he was just hatin’ on a fly brother in a nice suit. Before I turned the knob on the office door, I looked back at the man who’d herded me in this direction. He nodded, urging me on with a smile before inspecting the next person’s ticket.
I walked into an office that was absent any TSA or other passengers. From behind an old wooden desk covered in invoices and repair orders, a single person at the far end of the tight space beckoned me deeper. He was a stringy-haired man in a rumpled gray sport coat and black slacks. Looked out of place in the dirty, cluttered surroundings that reeked of oil and hydraulic fluid.
Before any options came to mind, an armed man entered behind me before either of us could exchange pleasantries. His eyes were obscured by black sunglasses and his clothes were missing any markings that would identify him as TSA or law enforcement. He quickly patted me down, removing my phone from my pocket and inspecting it thoroughly as if it might be something other than what it appeared. Then, as he replaced my phone in my pocket, he looked to the man who was probably his boss. Still no words, but his eyebrows rose from behind the sunglasses—their own little language worked out presumably from years together.
The man behind the desk nodded. “Finish up with the screening, then let ’em back in the air,” he crowed matter-of-factly. “I got this one.” What was it with motherfuckers referring to me as
this one?
this one?
“Excuse me?” I said as I hastily stalked toward the desk he’d obviously appropriated for this sole purpose. “I know my rights as a paying airline customer! And if you’re trying to harass me because I’m black—”
“Drop the act and have a seat, son,” he said, abruptly cutting me off mid-routine. “’Cause if you even think about trying to run, there’s three more just like him waiting on the other side of that door.”
Sunglasses grinned at me for a millisecond before reverting to stone and exiting the room.
“And I ain’t no terrorist,” I snapped, swiftly switching tactics.
“Yeah. You’re probably right about that,” he responded unfazed as he chose to finally stand. He walked around the desk and came forward, holding a folder in his hand. Was slightly taller than me and had an odd gait as if one of his legs had once been injured. “The question ... is just what are you,” he said from behind a cold, coffee-stained smile.
Whoever he was and whoever he answered to was patient.
Like me.
Waited until I’d boarded the plane with no chance of escape before springing the trap.
“We missed you in Newark by this much,” he said, pinching his thumb and index finger together. “Oh, you’re a slippery one, ain’t cha? But we got you now. We got you now.”
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