The metal chair is starting to warm up beneath my ass, is it irony that my hands are now numb from being cuffed behind me so long? I don't know, I've never been any good with stuff like that; you know, words 'n' numbers, “school smarts” I guess they're called. I never much went to school. You can't make money at school. But you can on the street. And as a youngster; pfft, listen to me, youngster? I'm barely 23. But, when I was younger, slinging dope, I made dollars, man.
I've heard 'em say “Money is the root of all evil”, but it ain't. Man is the root of all evil. He just uses the money to buy evil. You know, you've got your average Joe good citizens trying their darndest to earn an honest buck and live honest lives. And without people like me taking that “honest” buck off them, they might succeed. If it wasn't for the fact that the honest buck they'd earned, wasn't honest at all. The Big Corporations, they're the biggest crooks of them all.
And Average Joe's honest life? It ain't so honest. The Judges, the Doctors, the Teachers, they stand alongside the junkies, the murderers, the fiends, all in line for that hit, that shot, that release.
Besides selling some dope as a kid, drugs ain't my thing. Nor's boozin', nor's whorin'.
Boosting your bag, nickin' your nicies, pinchin' your possessions, smashing 'n' grabbin', breaking 'n' enterin', stealing your shit; that's my thing.
Well, it was.
The door opens and the two dick's enter the interview room. I place my bet on who's playing the bad cop. He's a bit taller than the other one and looked like he worked out as much as the other worked on eating doughnuts. The roley-poley one sits down in front of me and carefully places the thin folder on the table, squaring it with the edges. He looks me up and down with his big doughy eyes, then a glance at his partner. Bad cop starts pacing slowly around me.
There was no need for pleasantries, the uniforms had informed me about the recording devices around the room, and my rights.
“Jackson Kype,” tubby tells me my name, “I am Detective Shaw and this is Detective Monk,” he indicates to the silver-cropped gorilla glaring at me. “We're investigating the disappearance of a Mister Damien Bradelly –“
“Where is he you little punk fuck?” Monk's meaty hand scares the crap out of me as he slams it on the metal table. It makes Shaw jump too. He gives Monk a look. Monk puffs his chest out and resumes his gruff pacing.
Shaw resumes the questioning. “Jackson, Jack, do you know a Mister Andrew Connor?”
I know Andrew. Me 'n' Dee, we were, I dunno, partners I guess. I mean we were friends and all, but only friendly 'cos of the business, you know? I heard you can count your true friends on one hand, but being a thief, well, they used to, and sometimes still do, if caught, remove the hands; that's how many friends a thief should have. Friends let you down, turn on you and turn you in. If they know too much.
I know Dee's in the room next to mine. I know he won't talk too much. He can't.
I give Tubby a nod. They know I know him; Jesus guys this isn't our first time through this bullshit. But regardless, he goes through the motions, as do I. There's no need to kick the beehive; Monk is starting to remind me of The Hulk. Or that big bastard gorilla in Congo; or was it that other gorilla flick? Whichever one had the big, mean, grey-haired angry bastard!
This is getting boring now, he's just going over the same old ground. And my damn arms are dead and heavy.
“How about getting these cuffs off?” I ask, polite enough.
“How about,” The Ape growls, “you give us some fucking answers!”
“To what fucking questions?” I shoot back.
“You listen–” The Ape touches his partners shoulder, “Dave, get up.” He sits in Tubby's place, who just kind of stands there, not quite sure, it would seem this wasn't in their playbook.
“You listen, you little punk, I know, we know, that you kidnapped Bradelly, we know you've got him; you're friend next door told us.”
Friends, see?
“What we don't know,” The Ape continues, “is where he is now, or if he's even alive.”
This is the bit where I'm going to start being really really quiet.
The Ape stares at me. I send it right on back at him.
“Where is he!?”
I'm expecting it, so my only reaction to his raised voice is to wipe my face on my shoulder.
He doesn't like that. He launches himself at me and grabs my shirt in a fist. He pulls me up toward him.
“Where the fuck is he?” This time real spit sticks to my face.
Shaw grabs him roughly, and he releases his grip on me. By the time I look back up from steadying myself, they've disappeared.
There are no clocks in interview rooms. So I can't say how long it's been since they left, but fuck me, I'm bored. My arms and hands are a distant memory for me, something I used to own; like Lego. Or your DVD player.
And I'm thirsty. Isn't this against the Geneva Convention or something? Aren't prisoners supposed to be given at least basic rights?
As if in answer to my silent needing, Shaw comes back in the room, alone, and with a small paper cup of water. He places it in front of me. I just give him the blankest look I can. It takes him too long to realise, he wasn't the brightest dick in the cop shop.
Finally he undoes them and re-cuffs my wrists in front of me. I flex my limbs, they sting angrily.
“You stay sat in that chair,” Tubby says as he sits down. He opens the file, reads it, then looks up at me. “Your friend is quite the chatterbox,” he smiles like my 3rd grade teacher would, “Detective Monk is getting quite the statement from him right now.” Another read of the crap in the file, then a deep look into my eyes. “We've got you Jack. Your accomplice has confessed to the kidnapping and has named you the Man, Jack. He's in there now, naming you as the leader, claiming he was only following your lead. And we believe him, Jack. You're going down for kidnapping and extortion.”
They don't have a body. I'm not sure that it can technically be kidnapping. He's got me on the extortion though.
“So,” his drone carries on, “we can cover those insignificant details later.” He leans forward on his elbows. “What we need, Jack, is to know where he is.”
I sip the water loudly.
“Come on Jack,” he sits back in his chair with a huff, “don't add manslaughter, murder, to the list.”
I'm silent.
He tries another tact. “The family paid the ransom, son. You're supposed to return him. That's how it works.”
I laugh at this.
“Why is that funny, son?”
I laugh at him.
He sits back, his arms crossed, and studies me. I feel I owe him at least a little something.
“Detective Shaw, if everything worked the way it should, neither of us would be sitting here.”
“Why are you sitting here, Jack?”
“'Cos you bastards caught me.”
“Why did we catch you?”
I sigh.
After some initial hiccups, everything had been going perfectly. A plan had never run such a straight course. We'd got the money, we'd lost the cops. Then I'd gotten the phone call. Our employer. He was calling for a progress report. I told him what he wanted to hear.
Then heard something I now kind of wish I hadn't heard. Ignorance is bliss. And so is death. Which is how I'd be if I hadn't heard it. Let's not start assuming that I would've been safe; steal $300,000 and you need to become a ghost. Just preferably an alive one.
When the job had been offered our way, he'd wanted to give us 10%. 5% each. I wasn't risking major jail time for 25 G's. Besides, it was hardly our forte; we stole things, not people. I told him 20%, expecting to lose the jobs – no big deal, we didn't know the first thing about kidnapping. But he'd agreed straight away.
Looking back, that should've been alarm bells.
We took on the job.
Kidnap and ransom Damien Bradelly, a major corporate bigwig for a major oil and gas giant. The guy's worth a lot more than a lousy half mil. But at the time, we knew nothing about him. That didn't take long to fix. He was as predictable as the sun.
The “package”, we'd both seen enough movies to know how to sound the part, began his day, everyday, at 6AM; I'm usually crawling into bed around then. Silhouettes move throughout the house as the family wakes up. Then it's down to the breakfast room; yes, they had a room just for breakfast. We'd watch hungrily as they would tuck into pancakes, bacon, fruit, cereal, eggs – pretty much everything. He only had some fruit and a shake thing, but he would sit and laugh and talk with his family.
At 7AM he leaves for an hour to jog to the park where he works out for half an hour before returning home.
At half 8, he leaves for work. The heavy security at his office meant we couldn't hang around.
He left his office different times over the days we watched. But he always drove straight home, along the same route.
The plan had been hatched.
We'd take him during the morning jog. On his way home. He knew people at the park well enough to greet them by name, I didn't want to risk him being missed.
Dee assured me he could get a van. Step 1: sorted.
Step 2 was storage. I spent a whole night with my good buddy Jack Daniels before the brilliant answer came to me. I told Dee to get two vans, completely different from each other.
He did good. A navy blue Ford Transit and a white Nissan work van. You could faintly see the Plumbers details still on the sides of the Nissan in the right light. It was better than perfect.
I laid the plan out for Dee.
We would wait in the Ford, parked along his route home from the park. Between quarter-to and 8 o'clock, he will run past us. Dee will stop ahead of him and open the doors, I will grab him and get him in the back. Then we drive to a little spot I'd used as a safe spot a few times for goods, as well as myself. There the Nissan will be waiting. Transfer the package between vans. Dee takes the Ford, I drive the Nissan and the package. Dee dumps the Ford and I pick him up from a nearby point. We then stay mobile around the city. We stop to make the calls, besides that we keep moving. They can't getcha if you keep moving.
So simple.
What could go wrong? Both vehicles were mechanically sound. We would put extra diesel in fuel-cans so we didn't need to go to public stations. We'd have cuffs to restrain him. Chloroform to take him down. Simple yet effective.
And extremely hard to get, it turns out. Chloroform isn't one of your over-the-counter things. But a bludgeon is real easy to get, and should be just as effective.
It wasn't.
Everything up until that point had flowed smooth as milk. He'd passed us on his way to the park, right on time; and had appeared on his way home, right on time. We waited 'til he passed, then Dee moved the vehicle forward. I jumped out and tailed the package as Dee pulled up in front of him. The back doors swung open. My bludgeon came down hard on his head.
He turned around angrily.
I had to hit him 3 more times before he went down.
Then I had to drag him further than expected, we'd moved away from the van when he'd advanced on me; the tough motherfucker.
If no one saw me dragging his body into a dodgy blue Ford van at 7:40-something Tuesday morning, it's a goddamn miracle.
But, while I wasn't expecting the new developments, I'd kind of counted on being seen. Not as full on, I'll admit, but I was hoping someone would remember the blue Ford.
That was the brilliant part. The cops would be looking for the blue Ford, but we'll be in the white Nissan. Genius.
We drove like every other car on the road that morning, I don't think Dee has ever driven so carefully. And we made it to the safe point out of town without even seeing a cop.
I knew as we rounded the corner that something wasn't right. I'd noticed something, but I didn't know what.
I was dragging the package from the back of the Ford, Dee was opening the Nissan.
I hear an, “Oh, shit!” from Dee.
The package starts moving and groaning. I really don't want to whack him again. I pull him to his feet and help him walk toward the shitty lean-to nearby. He actually thanks me for helping him. He doesn't seem to know where he is; besides that he seems fine, which is a relief.
I right an old galvanised chair and sit him down. Before he can react, his arms are behind his back and cuffed to the chair.
He starts to protest so I leave him to it.
Dee meets me outside. Then tells me all about the flat tire on the Nissan.
10 minutes for the two of us to get it changed. Things are just so much more difficult wearing gloves. Then we are ready to leave. I grab the cuff keys out of my pocket. Except they aren't in my pocket. Or any of the other ones. Nor Dee's. The Ford is pulled apart, then the Nissan. Then I remember. I'd left them on the damn counter when we'd bought breakfast! They'd come out with my handful of change.
Shit!
He started protesting again as soon he saw us, but quietened down when I yelled at him to “Shut the fuck up!”
It was one well built chair. And we had no tools except a tire iron and that rusty, jagged saw hanging on that bent nail.
We did the only thing we could do.
It wasn't a problem. Until the first corner. Then the chair went over and the package spent the rest of the ride to the next point laying uncomfortably on his side. He repeatedly told me so.
Dee dumped the Ford and I picked him up.
The first point of business, gagging the package. With his constant yapping now constant mumbles, Dee set about righting him and securing the chair to the floor. The package wasn't going anywhere, so he used the excess rope we'd brought; but for good measure, Dee put a loop or two around him anyway.
Then we cranked the tunes and drove. A road trip around the city.
I tell Tubby none of this. I'm just blankly returning his stare.
“Why did we catch you Jack?” he asks again.
“You know,” I mumble into the empty paper cup. “Can I have some more?” I offer him the crinkled cup.
“In a bit. Okay, it says here,” he jabs at the papers, “that you were apprehended outside O'Malley's Irish Pub, at 10:35AM today.” He reads the papers silently, then, “Mister Connor was apprehended two hours ago at 17:27, five-twenty-seven PM.” He looks at me, waiting for a response. I give him none.
“Mister Connor was in possession of $50,000, we weren't surprised the serial numbers matched the ransom drop. He had a roughly treated gunshot wound to his right thigh. He was caught a good 9, 10 hours drive from here. Probably would've made it too. If he hadn't driven so fast.”
He leans back in the chair and crosses his arms.
“Now, Jack. This is the bit I don't understand. Lets assume that Andrew Connor drove fast the whole way, he's a man on the run. I've crunched some numbers and I'd estimate he left town at around, say 9.30. AM.
“Despatch receives an anonymous call at precisely 10.15, informing them that the kidnapper was standing outside O'Malleys.”
He stares at me. I keep starin' right on back.
“Wanna hear the call?” he asks, suddenly all friendly. He produces a small player and presses play.
My voice, raspy from the phone line, comes from the speaker.
“Hi, police? The kidnapper of Damien Bradelly is standing out the front of O'Malley's Irish Pub, corner of Preston and Boulder.”
The call clicks as it ends. Tubby looks at me. I look at him.
“Is that you, Jack?” he asks, leaning forward on his elbows again.
I give him nothing.
He stands up suddenly. His chair slides across the floor.
“Jesus Jack, a man's life is at stake here.” He turns to me suddenly. “He is alive, isn't he Jack?”
I'm no fool. I've already said too much in this room.
Tubby changes tact. “You're no killer, Jack. You're a thief, who got dragged into kidnapping; you're no murderer.”
I concentrate on making my look say, aren't I?
“God– ” his hands come down loud on the table, “damnit!” He leans in on them, “Tell us where he is, boy.”
Then a different tact, “If you co-operate it'll help with your defence.”
And another one: “You'll rot the rest of your life in jail; if you're lucky.”
And with the final, “Right!” he cuffs my hands behind my back and leaves the room.
After the fuck up's, things were finally back on track. This part had pretty much been planned for us. We were to call Bradelly's wife at midday.
Midday arrives. Dee drops me off at a payphone and drives around the block. I dial the number. It rings; my belly is feeling like it does before I hit on a girl. It rings and rings. It doesn't get picked up.
I hadn't counted on her being out.
I double check the number, I definitely have it right.
I see Dee driving toward me, his lap completed. I frantically wave him past. He gives me a weird look, but carries on for another lap. Good man, Dee, a good partner.
I redial the number and listen as it rings out. Again; this time carefully punching the numbers. Still no answer. I let it ring until Dee comes into view again, then give up.
We decide to wait an hour and try again.
At 1PM, I try the number from a different payphone.
It rings.
And rings.
And rings.
Suddenly, “Hello?”
My mind goes blank.
Again, “Hello?”
I concentrate on the information I have to give her.
“Hello? Who's there?”
“Mrs Bradelly,” I say, trying to change my voice, “we have your husband. If you want him back we want 500 thousand dollars. You have until midday tomorrow. We will be in touch.”
We do lap after lap of the town. Finally, at 7, I call her again.
It's answered before the first ring has rung.
“'Lo?” it's a deep male voice.
“Mrs Bradelly?” Why'd I ask that?
“No, this is Detective Sunderland, who's this?”
Sneaky bastard, I almost tell him.
“My name isn't important. What's important is the 500 G's. Will it be ready tomorrow or are we going to have to start mailing pieces of him home?” I wasn't sure where this part of me had been hiding, but it was fun.
“How do we know he's alive?” Sunderland was a pro.
But so was our employer. He'd told me what to do, even gone as far as setting up the account.
“He's alive.”
“We need proof. No proof, no ransom.”
“I dunno, Sunderland, I'm holding the cards here. The only thing you have that I want is the 500 thou. I can live without that. Can the Bradelly's live without their father and husband?”
“We need pr–”
“And you'll get it. Tomorrow morning, 9 AM, I'll call with the details. And I would very much recommend organising the money in the meantime. Drop off's at midday. I'll call at 9.”
The night was spent driving in shifts, having shitty naps, eating shitty food and drinking shitty coffee. We took a break to watch the sunset creep up from the top of a multi-park. Then it was back into the rat race of everyday people going about their everyday lives.
9 AM rolls around, I make the call.
He answers with, “Sunderland.”
“Good morning Detective.” He doesn't return my cheery greeting. “How's the money?”
“It'll be ready,” he doesn't sound happy at all. “How's Damien?”
“He's fine.”
“Where's our proof?”
“Okay, this is how it works. I have a Skype account, I'll give you the details in a minute. I'm sure someone in that house has a Skype account too. To find me, write this down Detective, search for; you ready?”
He grunts.
“Search for ex-five-six-three-one-ex. That's the user name: ex-five-six-three-one-ex. Read it back to me.”
“Ex-five-six-three-one-ex.”
“Right. At 9.30, that's half past nine, half to ten, video call that Skype name. It will be answered straight away and you will see Bradelly alive and well.”
“How do we know that it's a live feed and you're not playing us for fools showing us footage from yesterday?”
“Besides trusting me, Detective?”
“Yes, besides trusting you.”
“Thought that might be an issue for you. Okay, right now, give me 4 numbers between 1 and 5. Come on, 4 numbers between 1 and 5.”
“Uhh, 1, 3, 5 and, uhh... 5”
“Thank you Detective. Now, at the start of the video call a hand will appear in front of Bradelly, it will display those four numbers in that sequence, 1, 3, 5 and 5. That should be proof enough, yeah?”
“How do we know you haven't pre-recorded loads of video's with pre-recorded hand signals?”
“Really Detective? Really?”
“Yes. Without definitive proof, there is no money.”
“Jesus! Okay. Give me a hand gesture, any hand gesture you can think of. Flipping the bird, the wanker sign, whatever, and we'll do it after the numbers. How's that?”
I can here them talking about it in his silence.
Finally, “Okay, you'll give a thumbs down sign, followed by the numbers, followed by a thumbs up. Got it?”
I repeat it back, then, “See you at 9.30 Detective.”
We had 26 minutes to get organised. To get to the multi-park, to set up the van and prepare for the call. They couldn't know he was in a van, so we strung up a bed sheet behind him. Dee would be the hand model and I'd hold the phone. Dee wanted to hide his face, just in case, and settled for a bandana, bandit style.
The phone buzzed at exactly 9.30. I put my hand over the lens, received the call and muted it straight away. The package had been warned to stay quiet. I frame him on the screen you can see he's alive and well. I give Dee the OK sign. His hand comes into view. Thumbs down, 1, 3, 5, 5, thumbs up. And end call.
We're back on the move, playing the waiting game.
Midday finally rolls around. Phone call number 4.
“Sunderland.”
“Howdy Detective. How's the money looking?”
“We have it ready.”
“The video call worked then?”
“It's good to see he's alive and relatively unharmed.”
“He'll have a sexy nurse looking over those bruises in no time if you do what I say.”
“I'm listening.”
“At 1 PM, Mrs Bradelly, and only Mrs Bradelly, will take the money, in a duffel bag, to Greenmount Park. There is only one rubbish bin on top of the hill, she is to take the bag to the bin. There she is to swap the bag of money for a cell phone that will be hidden under the bin. Once the money has been collected, she will receive the location of her husband via the phone. Simple.”
“How do we know we'll get him back after you've got the money?”
“I guess you're just gonna have to trust me there Detective. 1 PM, Greenmount Park, or he dies.”
End of call.
Just under an hour to get sorted.
Dee would drive the package around, while I would grab the cash. He knew what he had to do if I wasn't at the pick up point by 1.30.
I was at the park with plenty of time to spare. A casual walk past the bin, the phone was still under there, stashed in a Macca's cup. Time to stash myself.
I'd chosen Greenmount Park for two reasons. I could get a good view of the bin from a distance, and it was close to the real drop point.
It's 12.53 and I'm watching the bin from the roof of the apartments nearby. A blonde woman walks to the bin, but only to drop in her lunch scraps. Another blonde, but she's playing with a dog on a leash.
Then she appears over the crest, Mrs Bradelly. I see the bag in her hand. She walks straight to the bin and puts the bag on top of it. She looks around over her shoulders, then reaches under the bin. I see she's got the phone in her hand.
Lights!
Speed dial #1. I see her jump as the phone vibrates. She stares at it in her hand. I know she's reading 'ANSWER IT NOW' as the caller ID. The call connects.
“Mrs Bradelly, if you want to see your husband alive, do not say anything, just listen and do as I say.” I can just make out her nodding. “I want you to grab the bag of money and walk down the hill toward the parking lot you can see from where you are. There, you will receive another call. Go!”
I end the call and watch her move down the hill. Well, I more watch the things around her. I know cops will be there somewhere. She's at the bottom of the hill before I spot them. 3 of them, 2 guys and the girl with the dog. A dog damnit, hadn't thought about dogs. But it shouldn't be a problem if everything goes smooth.
She's standing in the parking lot, looking all around her. I call again as I make my way down to the ground.
“Do you know the Starbucks in the Eastlot Shopping Street?”
She doesn't say anything.
“Mrs Bradelly, do you know the Starbucks in the Eastlot Shopping Street?”
She gives me sort of a “yes” answer.
“Right,” I carry on, “I want you to walk straight there. You get there as quickly as possible, but you must walk. I'll be in touch.”
I make it outside just as the 3 piggies and their dog go past me after her.
I hurry to the next part of the plan, the drop zone.
Camera!
I look up at the bridge above me and the banks either side. They look too steep for a dog to get down. I can only hope.
I call Mrs Bradelly.
“Mrs Bradelly, where are you?”
“I'm coming,” she sounds so frantic and out of breath, “please don't hurt him. I'm coming, I'm coming!”
“It's okay, Mrs Bradelly, I was just wondering where exactly you are.”
She hesitates before, “I'm almost at Thompkins Bridge. Please don't hurt him!”
“He's going to be fine. We all are. Now I want you to walk onto Thompkins Bridge,” I move and crouch into one of the big storm pipes. “When you get in the middle I want you to just drop the bag over the edge and carry on walking. Do you understand?”
She says she does.
I don't bother looking for blonde hair or anything, I just watch for the bag.
Action!
And there it is, falling like a big black cinder block. I'm up and running before it hits the ground. It lands with a solid thud, then it's in my hands and I've disappeared down another inflow pipe. A few left turns and there's the mark. Up the ladder, out the hole and to the bus stop. I sit on the bench, trying not to look like the biggest criminal in the world. Bang on 1.30, Dee is there in the van and we are cruising the city with half a mil in our hands.
Time to check in. I turn the radio down and dial the number as Dee carries on about what he's gonna be buyin'.
The call is answered straight away.
“It's Jack,” I begin.
“What the fuck is going on? You changed the drop point? Why? And why the fuck didn't I know?”
“Sir, it was– ”
“Do you have the money?”
“Yes sir.”
“You still have Bradelly too?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good, good. We will still meet at 5 PM at the designated spot. That is, unless you want to change that too?”
“Well, everything does seem to be on your terms, maybe I would.”
“You listen to me,” he yells out of the phone, “you little punk ass goon, we will meet where I say, when I say. 5 PM. Don't fuck me, Jack.”
The line is dead.
I tell Dee what had been said. Then it hits me. Dee questions the look on my face.
“How did he know? He fucking knew, Dee. How did he know? He knew we'd changed the fucking drop point. How?”
The package knew how, and after those 3 little words had been said, everything changed.
“He's a cop.”
The dicky-duo come back into the room. Tubby sits in front of me and the Ape resumes his slow pacing.
“You're not going to talk are you?” Tubby asks.
I say nothing.
“Yeah, I figured.” He stands back up and picks up the file. “Although I don't approve, Detective Monk's tactics are sometimes the only way.”
I look up at a grinning gorilla, an evil grinning gorilla.
“So,” Tubby reaches for the door, “I'll leave you two alone for a bit.”
“It'll just be me,” the Ape leans over me, “and you, you little punk ass goon.”
“Wait!” I yell at Tubs.
He turns to me, the door half open. A raised eyebrow in my direction.
“I'll talk to you,” I tell him, “but only you.”
Tubs looks at the Ape, who shakes his head.
“Then Bradelly dies,” I say.
They go out in the hall closing the door behind them.
After a bit, Tubby comes back in, alone. He resumes his seat.
“So, where is he, Jack?”
“He's safe, and I promise you'll have him soon. But there is something else I need to tell you first. Can I have some paper and a pen? And maybe these cuffs off?”
He gives me what I ask and I start to write. It's not much, but it's everything he needs. He writes a few questions. I write the answers. This continues until he's satisfied and he sits back in his chair, his arms folded. Nothing has been said in the room for so long, I want to break the silence with a scream. It felt good to share this little burden I'd been carrying since yesterday. This deadly little burden.
None of us had wanted to go to the pier at 5 PM. Dee refused to drive and Bradelly wouldn't shut up about dying.
But I wasn't going to piss this guy off any more. I was all out of ideas, all that was going through my mind was run!
I can imagine we stood out, a white van in the dark storage yard; even with the headlights out. We stopped in the middle of the clearing, the engine idling, all of us eyeing the surroundings. There is no movement, no shadows, no one. Dee opens his door and starts to get out.
I see the muzzle flash as the bullet smashes through the windscreen and flies past my head. Bang! Another flash. Bang! And the screaming. Dee is hanging half in the van, I can see he's holding on. I stamp on the pedal and with a loud squeal, and a dangerously unstable 180, we burn out of there.
We are flying down the road and I'm trying to see the damage. Bradelly has gone over and is laying on his side.
My attention goes to Dee. The bastard had got him right in the leg. Spit flies through his teeth with his harsh breathing. He just keeps saying the word “Fuck!” over and over.
I try to glance at road and wound at the same time. It doesn't look too bad. I mean, he's been shot, but blood ain't spurting out or anything like that.
First things first - get safe.
As far as I knew, the lean-to hadn't been busted. I prayed to every god I knew that it hadn't. And as the headlights fell onto it, it looked undisturbed.
I got Dee into the back of the van. Blood was soaking through his jeans and starting to pool under him. With my ripped up shirt we managed to get the blood flow to slow.
Detective Shaw escorted me to the cells. It would seem we were done for the night. He took the cuffs off and before he left me alone in the tiny room he honoured my written request; it disappeared into my pocket.
I paced the room, I'd been sat for way too long. A bit of a jog, some push ups, I could feel life coming back into my weary body.
All I could do was hope I was right. And also hope I hadn't underestimated him. The only thing we didn't have was proof. The cops could probably have found something given the time, but Bradelly didn't have that time. He'd be a dead man, as long with me and Dee.
I can only hope this works.
Right on cue, the door rattles as it's unlocked. I have time to take a really deep breath before he's inside.
“Where the fuck is he?” his spit layers on my face. “Where the fuck is he you little punk ass goon?”
He throws me to the bed and follows after pinning me down. His fist lands square on my jaw and my vision explodes with dark stars.
“Where is he?”
My lungs empty with his fist in my gut.
“Why,” I say, “do,” gasping, “you care,” for air, “so much?”
“The only thing I want to hear from your mouth is where he is.” He raises his hand, ready to strike again.
I put mine up, covering my face and ask him to stop hitting me.
“I'll stop hitting you when you tell me where Damien Bradelly is. He's alive isn't he?”
I lower my hands and look him in the eye. “You don't know?”
“Know what?” He backs off me.
I laugh to myself.
“What the fuck is so funny?” he advances on me, hand going up again.
“Wait! Wait!”
He's close enough to strike, but doesn't, I take my cue.
“I'm going to make an assumption here, a wild one – you employed me; us.”
I watch his face. The hand falls down where it belongs.
“Is he alive or dead?” he says very quiet and carefully.
“Was it you who shot at us?” I counter.
“Answer my fucking question.”
“I would like to, but I wanna know if it was you that shot him.” I may have just said too much.
“So he is dead,” a grin spreads across his face as he walks around the room.
I say nothing for a while, then “It was you, wasn't it, who shot at us?”
He looks at me like I'm shit on the bottom of his shoe. “Yeah, why's it so important?”
“Service piece, was it?” My innocence deserves an Oscar.
“Yeah, wh–? Oh shit!”
He's back at me, pulling me up by my t-shirt. “Where is he?” he growls.
I'm calm in my response. “You can beat me, I won't tell. You can torture me, I won't tell. You can kill me, he will be found on Monday morning.”
He looks like he's going to go nuts and get all Donkey Kong on my ass, then I think he realises I'm serious.
“What do you want?” he asks, letting me go.
“Not much,” I say, “I want all of the ransom money,” he laughs at this. “And I want to know why?”
He sighs and backs off. I get up and straighten my clothing, I squeeze my pocket and feel it click.
He is short and precise with his explanation.
As soon as he admits to the part where he shot us, I yell the word “Banana!” and the cell door opens. Shaw bursts in and places his partner under arrest, cuffing his hands behind him.
Monk just laughs at him and asks him if I'm his star witness.
I pull the dictaphone from my pocket and rewind it a bit. I play Monks voice, mumbled, but audible enough, confessing.
“You didn't mention a manslaughter charge,” Monk mumbles to Shaw.
“Bradelly isn't dead,” I laugh.
“Actually he's on his way to hospital right now,” Shaw tells him. “He's confirmed everything Jack has told us. You fucked up Matthew, you really fucked up.”
He leads Monk from my cell to one of his own. I lay down on my bed and can finally relax. I can't wipe the grin off my face. Sure, I'm going to be doing time for kidnap and extortion, but I'm sure Shaw will put in a good word for me. And anyway, with $400,000 waiting safely for me, I'll do whatever time they throw at me. I'll just tell them that Monk took it when he shot Dee. His word against mine. And they'll never find it.
They were so close to the money when they rescued Bradelly, if only they'd looked in that nearby column that was prepped for concreting and seen the black bag I'd stashed right at the bottom just that morning. The black bag full of bills, in those deep shadows, soon to be encased in concrete, just waiting for me to be released.
By J. Barrett
09/04/2013
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