Jack Wakes Up, page 24
part #1 of Jack Palms Series
Jack can’t see the far door where the bouncers are, but he sees one of the guys on the pool table shoot in that direction and then leap up into the air, his arms limp and his middle pushed back as if he’s just been shot at close range with a shotgun. Maxine’s screaming from the other side of the couch, and the Russian knocks Niki to the floor with his legs. Niki aims at the Russian, but now he’s got his hands on the gun too, over Niki’s, and it goes off. “Stop,” Vlade says, but now he’s crouched against the wall; he holds the gun at the guy on the pool table. Niki and the Russian wrestle.
Jack can’t see where Junius is, but soon he hears the isolated and regular shots from Junius’s gun coming from the far side of the room. He scrambles around to the far end of the couch, where he finds Maxine curled up in a ball with her hands over her ears. She shakes her head when she sees Jack. “I don’t like this,” she says.
He touches the top of her head, smoothes her hair. “I’m sorry, Max.”
But the Russian seems to be gaining an advantage over Niki, so Jack scrambles forward as best he can, and grabs the Russian’s arms, pushes them back enough that Niki can pin them over his head. Niki says something that Jack can’t make out. Now the automatic fire is coming rapidly all around them, tearing up the couch. Jack gets down flat on his stomach. The Russian and Niki are already flat down. Vlade starts firing in the direction of the pool table, Jack can’t see at what, but assumes it’s at a Colombian who’s going crazy with his Uzi.
Niki starts punching the Russian in the face with his non-shooting hand and knocking his head against the floor. Blood’s coming out of the Russian’s nose and soon the pressure of him pushing his arms against Jack’s hands subsides.
“Shit. Fuck!” Jack hears Junius’s voice on the other side of the room come in a scream.
He sees Freeman move in a crouch across the wall from the desk to the door that they came in through, and slip out. An abrupt burst of automatic weapons fire comes from the hall, and then it ends just as suddenly as it started.
Jack and Niki exchange a look that Jack wants to mean, this place has turned into a hell storm, but Niki has a wild look on his face that contains something different entirely. He sits up and shoots over the back of the couch, at what Jack can’t even see. Then there’s quiet in the room, a lack of shooting in the club. In the silence, Jack hears Maxine crying at the end of the couch, her sobs consistent and her struggle to breathe in between them, and the other people breathing around him. The Russian’s is labored, coming in fits and starts. Vlade’s chest is heaving.
“Junius?” Jack calls.
He hears coughing, then, “I’m here,” from the far corner of the room.
“You OK?”
More coughing. “I don’t know.”
Jack starts to sit up, looks around the room: he sees glass and plaster, a thin film of white in the air that might be coke, or plaster dust from the walls, or smoke from gunfire. Lines of bullet holes criss-cross the wall from the desk to beyond the door and over Vlade’s head, to the wide screen TV in the corner. This has bullets holes through it too, the screen smashed and destroyed.
Vlade’s on the floor against the wall, his gun beside him and his hands covering his shoulder.
Jack throws him a pillow from the couch, and he presses it to his wound. “Thanks,” Vlade says.
“Anybody there?” Jack recognizes the voice of the cop coming from the other side of the room, probably still under the pool table. “I’m coming out now. I’m done here.”
“Fuck you!” It’s Maxine’s voice, coming from the other end of the couch.
The cop comes into the center of the room and turns toward Jack and Niki for a moment.
Then he continues in the same direction, heads out the doorway to the hall, and is gone.
Vlade looks at Jack. “Who was that?”
“Crooked cop,” Jack says. “That’s all I know. But it’s OK. I know someone who will know him.”
From what Jack can see, the area behind the desk is a mess of destruction: the cabinet where Tony held some trophies—they look like baseball and Little-League—and a few china plates, crap really, is all shot up and broken far beyond what happened when Freeman knocked him into it. Now the shelves themselves hang at odd angles, their items in pieces. The chair-back is broken, cut off with bullets and hanging backward, holding on by a piece of leather at one side.
Slowly rising to a crouch and higher, Jack sees a couple of Colombians, Alex Castroneves’ guys for sure, splayed out on the pool table, the two-way mirror completely broken out, glass all around them.
As Jack stands, he sees Tony lying on the floor in front of his desk. He thinks it’s Tony, what’s left of him: in a great deal of blood, Jack can make out Tony’s ponytail, his black clothes.
He sees one of his hands and can recognize the rings. He’s been more than significantly sprayed by fire from the automatics.
Through the space where the mirror used to be, Jack sees the wreckage of the club: tables turned over and most of the bottles and glass shattered with automatic weapons fire. On the far side of the room, a woman holding a dressing gown to her chest walks across the floor. When she sees Jack, she screams and raises her hands beside her shoulders, still holding the gown to her body with her arms. When Jack shows her his own hands are empty, she smiles, crying steadily, her makeup running down her face in streaks. She keeps walking toward the front exit of the club. No one else moves outside. One of the front door bouncers lies draped across a table, and on the floor a couple of Colombians lie cut up with bullets, losing what’s left of their blood.
Niki stands too now, still holding his gun on the Russian. “Shit,” he says. “This did not go well.”
“Yeah,” Jack says. “That’s the truth. Other than the fact that we’re alive.”
He carefully makes his way around the couch to make sure there’s no life on the pool table: just two dead Colombians. Beyond them, by the door to the club, Shiny Bald Head is crumpled 254
against the wall, still holding the shotgun in his arms, but with a line of black across his chest and red underneath it, where one of the Uzis cut across him at close range.
Just to be secure about the Colombians, Jack takes the automatics—both Uzis, hot to the touch—and slides them on the floor into the corner, away from anyone else. He hears Junius cough from behind the desk. “Jack?”
Jack turns toward the desk and as he does, through the far door, he gets a look at The Surfer and The Pro, both still holding shotguns, laid out on the floor in a great deal of blood. They look as if they set up behind a table turned on its side, but somehow lost this cover or got shot up—
what’s left of them does anyway.
Jack walks over to the desk as Niki takes out a set of flex-tie handcuffs and puts them around the Russian’s wrists, attaching him to one of the legs of the couch.
“Junius?” Jack says.
“Yeah, man.”
Coming around the end of the desk, Jack finds Junius pressed up against the wall in an awkward pose, his shoulders hunched against his chest, as if he’s fallen into this position and it’s not one he would choose. His gun rests next to him on the floor.
Junius shakes his head. “I’m fucked up, man,” he says. He coughs, and a bubble of blood forms over his mouth, then pops. He looks down at his body. Jack can see that he’s been shot in the stomach a few times, maybe also in the chest, in his leg. It’s hard to tell where the bullets went in and where he’s just bleeding. He spits a gob of red onto the floor. “What the fuck can I do, man?” He looks up, his eyes glassy, but not without some hope.
Jack bends down, crouches beside him, and takes his arm. “This isn’t the scene where the drug dealer dies at the end, OK?”
Junius laughs. “This ain’t your fucking movie, man. This shit be real out here.” He coughs.
Jack hears Vlade yell and, turning around, he sees Niki helping him up to his feet. Niki raises his chin at Jack and points toward the door.
Jack pats Junius on the arm. “Where’s Free, baby? We’ll carry you out of here.”
Junius shakes his head. “Find that motherfucker man, but I ain’t going make it. I’m fucked.”
He spits. “Is Tony dead?”
Jack nods. “He’s shot to pieces.”
“That motherfucker did have this whole shit planned. I used the Russians once. Now he’s their boy.” He takes a few breaths to collect himself before going on. “You heard him say that bald motherfucker was his new connection?”
Jack shakes his head. “I heard that part.”
“Yeah. The dude. He said that.” Junius nods, then he shakes his head, coughs. “Maybe he didn’t say it; I don’t know. I bought from him before. He’s size.”
Jack pats Junius’ shoulder. “Relax, man. It’s OK now.”
“Just the fact that that bald fucker’s here means he was selling to Tony. Man, he only does size. Probably set to have Tony run this whole city.”
“OK, J. OK.”
Junius spits. He looks at the desk. “There still blow up there?”
Jack looks, sees there’s enough left for them all to do a few lines tonight, and cups some of it in his hand. “Will this help?”
Junius looks at the blow and his eyes widen. “Is a pig’s pussy pork?”
Jack holds the blow under Junius’s nose, and Junius does his best to inhale, but when he tries, he coughs and blood runs out of one nostril. He laughs, shakes his head. “I’m so fucked, man.”
Jack holds up his hand again, but Junius says, “It’s OK, Jack, man. Be good. You did OK.” He looks at the desk, the gun cabinet. He nods, and then he’s quiet.
Jack drops the blow onto the floor, claps his hands clean. He waits to see if Junius will breathe again, and then closes the dead man’s eyes.
Niki’s hand falls onto Jack’s shoulder. “We need to go.”
“OK,” Jack says, standing. He starts to back away from the desk and then hears the spray from an automatic firing and ducks back down again. The bullets cut across the wall to the side of the desk, over the gun case. “The fuck?” He turns and, peering around the desk, sees Maxine holding the Colombians’ Uzis, one in each hand. Niki rolls against the wall and comes up with his gun trained on Maxine’s chest. He yells for her to put the weapon down.
“No,” Maxine says. She’s standing at the end of the couch, where she’s been the whole time, where Jack stupidly threw the Uzis.
“Maxine,” Jack says. He starts to stand up slowly, shaking his head. “This is over. Just put them down, and we all leave, never think about this place again.”
“You don’t,” she says. “I worked for this motherfucker.” She’s crying even harder now, her hair covering her face and mascara running down her cheeks. “I worked here.”
“That’s OK,” Jack says. “Just calm down.” He reaches for Niki’s arm and lowers the gun.
“Just put the guns down, and we leave. OK, Max?” He starts across the room toward her, and she points the guns at his chest.
“Don’t make me use these, Jack.”
“Hey,” he says, raising his hands. “You don’t have to do anything here. It’s all real easy.”
“No,” she says. “Everything is fucked now, Jack.”
Jack opens his arms. “You’re a beautiful girl, Maxine. You’ll be OK.” With his right hand, he gestures toward what’s left of Tony. “You really think you needed this little fucker?”
“I needed his money.”
“You want money?” he says. “Go sell these guns, sell some of the coke lying around here, some of the X. Come out to the car and let me give you a few grand for your troubles.”
“Like fuck,” she says, shaking her head.
“Look around you, Maxine. You see what this kind of shit brings down?”
She lowers the guns, still holding them ready as Jack moves closer, but no longer aiming at him. “Give me the guns,” he says.
She drops them onto the couch, leans forward, rests both her hands on its back. She takes one deep breath and then screams, lets out everything inside her in one huge, penetrating cry that sends Jack and Niki both a few steps backward. Then she stands up straight, looks at Jack. She waves her hands. “I’m OK,” she says. “And I’m done here.”
She walks out from behind the couch, and Jack goes to her, his arms open, ready to give her some comfort, but she holds up a hand, keeps walking. “No thanks,” she says. “I’m better off.”
She walks to the door, nodding at Vlade and Niki. As she passes them, she says, “Boys.”
Then she walks out.
“Shit,” Jack says, taking the clips out of the Uzis and throwing them aside.
Niki’s eyebrows are half-way up his forehead. “Chick is fucked,” he says.
Jack laughs. “Tell me about it. But she can get it together when she needs to.” He starts toward the door, looking around him to see if there’s anything he should take. The place is pretty much destroyed; the only piece of furniture that hasn’t been completely taken apart is the couch, and even that has a line of gunshots across its top, the fabric torn and stuffing sticking out of it.
Jack looks at the coke, decides it’s not in his best interest to try to do anything with it. The same goes for the guns. He claps his hands off, looks down at them, and sees the blood on his pants, probably Junius’s, and the coke on the front of his shirt. He tries to clean himself off, but knows this’ll take a long, hot shower—maybe more than one.
Jack looks at the Russian, lying on the floor with his hands cuffed to the couch. “Can he move that?” he asks Niki. Jack tries lifting the couch, and moves it a little, enough to worry about the Russian leaving when he comes to.
Niki’s already started to cut off the plastic cuffs, and Jack helps him drag the Russian across the room to the pool table. He starts to wake slightly as they move him, his eyes opening slowly, and Niki punches him in the face again. Jack can see he’s still breathing when he looks at his chest, but he’s out again, his eyes closed, blood around his nose and mouth.
“Nice work,” Jack tells Niki. “Very thorough.”
With another pair of plastic cuffs, Niki attaches him to the pool table, an object that’s so heavy he definitely won’t be able to move.
“The cops will want this guy,” Jack says. “He’s been dealing blow and X, his set up’s big enough to give Tony V. delusions of grandeur, and they’ve been hearing about him through the wires. Shit, they even think he’s an international terrorist. War on Terror and some shit. They get a case against him, make it stick, and maybe all our troubles go away.”
“Troubles?”
Jack shakes his head. “That thing downtown today? The cars?”
Vlade raises his gun. “No. He is K.G.B. coming after us. We should kill him.”
Jack looks up, surprised to hear Vlade getting involved. “The police come across this shitstorm, they’re going to need someone they can bust. You want that to be us or you want it to be him?”
“But we haven’t killed anyone here,” Niki says.
“Exactly.” Jack fixes Vlade with a hard stare. “Well most of us haven’t. Let’s keep it that way.”
Vlade still holds the gun aimed at the Russian. “He sent his men after us and now he will want to kill us.” He looks down at the blood coming out of his shoulder. “And,” Vlade yells, “He just fucking shot me!”
“Calm down, big fella.” Jack stands and goes over to Vlade, pats him on the good shoulder.
“Seriously. We need the police to find this guy alive. They’ll take care of him.” Jack looks at Niki and then back to Vlade.
Vlade bites his lower lip. “He sent his men to shoot at us. They shot your car.”
“That’s right,” Jack says, turning back to kick the Russian in his legs. “He’s a fuck, but we leave him.”
“We got to go.” Niki straightens up to his full height.
“He’s right,” Jack says.
Vlade puts up the hand on his good side to show that he won’t argue anymore.
“Plus,” Jack says. “We have to get you fixed up.”
Niki comes over to Jack and Vlade, claps his wounded friend on the good shoulder. “I will fix you,” he says.
“Then let’s go.”
“One second,” Niki says. He goes over to the desk, where he puts a small pile of coke onto a credit card. After cutting it into two lines with his finger, he brings it over to Vlade. “This will help with the bullet.”
“OK,” Vlade says, and then, after snorting the lines, “Yes!” Now wide awake, glowing, he shouts it. “Yes! Take this fucking metal out of my shoulder!”
Niki looks at Jack guiltily, shrugs. “It will help with pain.”
Jack laughs. He has to: Now he’s got a shot-up, coked-up Czech-Russian, ex-K.G.B. man to deal with. He just points to the door. “Let’s go.”
45
They find Freeman in the hall outside the office, partly awake. He’s been shot, but he knocked the hell out of the Colombian who shot him, beat the man with his own gun, using it as a club. They help him up; it takes Jack and Niki to lift him, but soon he’s supporting most of his weight on his own, starting to walk. Jack asks him if he’ll be OK, and Freeman laughs. “This’s just a few shots, is all.”
Jack and Niki exchange a look behind Freeman’s wide back, Jack wondering how much coke the big guy’s done, and Niki raising his eyebrows, probably thinking they should give him more.
