The roads were far busier in the Commercial District of Staunton Island. Traffic jams queued cars back several blocks and the air was thick with pollution and impatient honking. From the lights at the end of the bridge the cars split up in one of two directions – half going right, to Bush Stadium for another "friendly" (a term used loosely by commentators due to the uncontrollable amount of violence conjured up during, after and sometimes before the matches even started) game between the Liberty City Cocks and Beavers, which would surely end in at least one death, especially if the SUV driving soccer moms got worked up like they do every week and start running over the other team's players. And the other half went left, to their boring nine to five jobs at Love Media, Liberty Tree newspaper, or the FBC bank. Needless to say, all the ambulances turned right.
Me, I was going straight on apparently, thanks to the Sat Nav in the truck, to Belleville Park, wasting no time in pleasing the anonymous, mysterious male with my number and a million eyes seemingly watching my every move.
The lights changed, a pathetic flash of green appeared as the red faded, and a score of cars surged for the lights, like they had the other twice this had happened, almost half the cars still not fast enough to get through. Sick of waiting, I turned on the sirens and laughed as the cars pulled out of the way on to the pavements. With a quick glance in the rear view mirror I saw the pile up of angry football fans in SUVs flipping each other off and revving their engines threateningly.
I made a right at the end of the road, parking my truck up the pavement with hoards of greenery adjacent. I got out carefully, easing myself down the steep drop from the door to the ground, and walked through an opening into the park. I followed the dirt road, idly kicking small stones around and staring through the thick sheet of branches at the sky. After some time of walking, the path led to a small staircase, two vile smelling doorways at the bottom. Hands in pockets I descended the steps, deciding to try the men's toilet first. It was clear which one was the Men's since the door was hanging off, giving clear view of the urinals inside. That, and the sign, covered in childish graffiti, of a stick man, with various depictions of green, blue and black marker genitalia that was stuck to the wall beside the opening.
I walked in cautiously, stopping every two or three steps to glance behind. I took a look under the cubical doors, and found nothing. Nothing human, anyway. I turned around to leave, and felt a cold hand on my shoulder. I swivelled round sharply and saw the most sorry excuse for a man I had ever seen, in a brown, torn suit with grey hair and slight wrinkles. He smiled.
"How ya doin', kid?" he sounded different than he had on the phone.
"Who the hell are you?" I managed. "And why the hell have you been stalking me?"
"Hey, kid, show some respect. I did you a real favour! It's all over the news how you killed that mob boss." his tone became insistent.
"I didn't kill him!"
"Suure ya didn't." he grinned.
"No, I didn't, I swear!"
"Whatever, kid, your secret's safe with me anyhow. If you work for it."
"I don't wanna work for you."
"Think about it this way. I could kill you right now, or hand you over to the police and never think twice about it. Or, we could work together and become great friends and keep each other's secrets secret. What d'ya say?"
"Dammit." I muttered under my breath. "What do you want?"
"Name's Ray. Ray Machowski. I'm a cop. Nah, nah, don't worry, I aint exactly what you'd call a . . .good cop. I done a bunch of pretty bad shit on the force, ya know. . . skimming drugs for selling, taking bribes, but who wouldn't? Anyway now I'm a marked man, and I'm hidin' out down here, but there's this scumbag Donny Miller, used to be my partner, says he's gonna rat me out to the cops. I can't have that! So I want you to take care of him. Make sure ya take really good care of him, ya know?"
"I get it. . ." I sighed.
"He always takes a taxi from work at four, over to his apartment in Hepburn heights. I don't expect to hear his name again except in the obituaries, you got it?"
"Sure thing. . ."
"Don't worry, I'll make it worth your while. How much money you got?"
"Five hundred bucks. . ."
"Wow, kid, you're broke. What you driving?"
"Stolen fire truck."
"Ah ha ha! Nah, seriously, that's great, really. See ya around kid."
"Jackass." I whispered, walking out of the bathroom, being able to breath again. I followed the path once more, back to my vehicle, but instead waited for a taxi, so I could pick up Donny from work and silence him.
I saw an empty taxi rounding the corner, and poised myself on the balls of my feet. As it drove onward, I leapt off the pavement and to the ground (A trick I learned from Rakin and Ponzer personal injury attorneys) and pretended to have been hit. The taxi screeched to a halt, the driver door opened. I lay on my back, head pointing to the side as the driver's feet neared. He stopped with his feet only inches from my side and looked down nervously. He took a moment to look around to check if anyone had seen him, and at that point I grabbed his ankles and pulled him to the floor, before leaping up, getting in his taxi (ignition still on), and speeding away, making sure he stayed down by driving over him.
I drove back the way I had come not much earlier. The traffic leaving Staunton was much scarcer than that fleeing Portland. And who could blame them? I was across the bridge in record time, peeling round the corner and avoiding both Chinatown and St Mark's with ease. I stopped outside the police station at a quarter to four and waited on my man.
About five minutes later another taxi appeared, the driver honking his horn to signal his presence to his potential fare. This annoyed me, so I climbed out of my taxi and approached his, pressing my hands against the roof, waiting for him to roll down his window.
"Hey, punk," I said, "I already got this fare, so amscray."
"Like hell I will! I need the money! Don't make me kick yo' ass!" he yelled.
"This doesn't have to get ugly."
"Too late!"
He stepped out of his taxi, flinging the door in my gut. I kicked it back at him and charged him into the side of the cab, my elbow across his throat to choke him and my other arm in his gut. "Look! Here's sixty bucks for your trouble. Get the hell outta here."
"Alright, alright!" he screamed, taking off with the money.
I shook my head and sighed, counted the money I had left and put it back in my jacket pocket. The station doors swung open. I cursed quietly and ran back to the cab, starting the ignition again as an officer walked down the steps. He stuck his head through the window.
"Hey Larry." he said coolly. "Wait, you're not Larry! Who the hell-"
"Hey, calm down. Larry's sick." I lied. "Climb in. Officer Miller, right?"
"Yeah. Can ya take me to Hepburn Heights?"
"Sure thing, chief." I put the car into reverse and spun the wheel until we were facing the other way, and throttled forward.
"Hey, hey, this isn't the way to Hepburn Heights!"
I pulled over a block away from the station. "Oh, isn't it?" I reached under the seat for my baseball bat.
"Y. . .yeah," he mumbled, uneasily, "it's. . .the other way."
"I know. I used to live there myself." I lifted the bat onto my lap. "Thing is, mister Miller, we're not going to Hepburn Heights."
"The hell? What you doing with that bat?" he screamed.
"We can't have you escaping, Donny boy." I mused, striking the bat across Donny's knees with a loud, sickening crack, his legs going limp and contorted as he screamed his pain at the top of his lungs. I swung the bat again at torso level, connecting with the bones in his arm, watching the joint in his elbow pop out of place and blood soaked bone pierce through his flesh with a disgusting white and red colour. I grinned, swung the bat for the third time, aiming for his other arm, tearing it clean off as patches of blood started to form on his trousers and shirt, his throat going hoarse from the screams and his voice disappearing. Tears coated his eyes and cheeks in glistening silver.
I wiped the blood off the bat, and put it back under the seat.
Donny lay, barely concious, contorted inhumanly, with his limbs hanging inanimately from the sockets and blood seeping from him.
I geared up the engine again, and drove to Easy Credit Autos, took a left, onto a dirt road and followed it down to the enormous yellow crane which glinted in the sun, forcing me to squint to see.
I parked on the chalk "X", and left the car, waving happily to Donny through the back window. I sat on the ground and watched as the magnet on the crane lowered slowly, attached to the car and began to haul it upwards, before letting it drop into the bucket, Donny screaming in terror and agony as the towering metal walls of the container contracted, crushing with an immensely high pitched screeching of metal, the still living Donny, and the taxi, into nothing more than a blood soaked cube.
I laughed, and dusted my hands to signify a job well done.
I assumed it was no coincidence that Easy credit Autos was situated right above the car crusher, ready to catch people as they walked by without a vehicle. It was, however, ironic that their showroom vehicle, a blue and black striped Banshee, happened to be unlocked, keys taped to the dashboard with the word "bargain" scrawled on an easy-clean whiteboard.
I took off, shattering the floor to ceiling showroom windows for no particular reason in the process, and drove to the Pay N Spray in Hepburn Heights, waiting for an hour or so for them to respray the car a bright lipstick red colour and change the license plates. I assumed I would have to meet Ray in the park again to get my payment, and after spending the rest of my already meagre cash on the respray (despite the drop in prices now that the owner doesn't have to pay the Mob for protection), I could really use some cash.
I cruised through Hepburn Heights, under the train tracks, and across the Callahan bridge, my arm resting lazily on the top of the door frame, the wind soothing on my face. Not paying much attention, I ran the red light after the bridge, and overtook three drivers before noticing I was in a commercial area. No one seemed to care, except one driver who offered some choice expletives on my passing.
The park was bereft of human life. By the looks of things it only inhabited prostitutes and drug dealers anyway, the kinds of life that are pretty much nocturnal.
In the filthy restroom, asbestos, grease and other unmentionable stains covered the once white tiles of the walls. Looking at your reflection in one of the hanging mirrors proved futile, the metal long corroded so they looked almost identical to the tiles.
Ray wasn't around. What I did find was a note, written on a few sheets of toilet paper, requesting I meet him at Kenji's Casino if I wanted paid, since he was in a bit of a difficult situation.
I threw the note down in disgust, but not because of what it said. I marched out of the bathroom, tossing my car keys from hand to hand, and walked along the path, pushing over a junkie who choked out the words "got a light?" and got a little too close for comfort.
I followed the parade of Yakuza Stingers, a line of maybe twenty or thirty cars slowly drifting South along a dual carriageway, a single Japanese man in a white tuxedo diverting all other traffic elsewhere. I slipped in behind the queue without hassle, and was led to the casino, with its brightly lit blue and red neon archway, washed out looking red flags inscribed with Japanese lettering, but the building was without the warm, hypnotizing glow a casino should have.
Something was amiss.
I walked through the glass doors into the foyer decorated in various shades of red, with buzzing neon slogans, crimson velvet carpeting, red/pink wallpaper and perfectly contrasting navy blue ceiling. In the middle, their clothing doing a complete disservice to the fabulously decorated room were some Asian looking people in black and grey suits, and Ray, the only one I recognised, in the same brown suit he had been wearing earlier.
I walked over loudly (as loud as I could make my footsteps on the thick carpet) in order to demand my money. I opened my mouth to speak.
"Oh, kid, it's horrible!" Ray stumbled over and grabbed me by the shoulders.
What about my money, Ray? I choked the words back down before I spoke them, sighed to myself and said in an exasperated tone, "What's wrong?"
"It's Kenji. He's been murdered, kid."
"By some cowardly Cartel scum!" yelled a dark haired Asian woman in a grey suit jacket and matching bottoms. She walked over. "Who is this, Ray?"
"This guy sorta works for me." he replied.
"You, you trustworthy? You look trustworthy. Maybe you can do a little job for me, and make sure my brother Kenji's death does not go unavenged."
I tried to mouth to Ray to give me my money so I could leave.
"You can do that for Asuka, right, kid?" Ray said without asking, nodding his head up and down in the process.
"I. . .I guess. . ."
"Ah, kid, that's fantastic news!"
Asuka took me by the arm and led me away from the group.
"My expert sources tell me that the Cartel will be having a meeting later today in an abandoned warehouse in Portland, near the docks. Please put the fear of God into them, for my brother's sake, and for this you will be generously rewarded."
"I'll do it."
"I knew you wouldn't refuse. I will personally take you to Portland Docks by boat from the harbour by my condo, my personal chauffeur will drive us. Follow me."
I went with Asuka out the back exit of the casino. No one was gambling, only a dozen suits stood around in silence, out of respect for the departed owner. Asuka led me to a lime green Kuruma in the casino parking lot, where her driver was already waiting. We both got in the back and a sheet of black coloured glass rose to separate the front and back seats for privacy.
"Do you have a place to live?" asked Asuka, as the car wheeled out of the lot and onto the street.
"Not yet. My house was destroyed and I don't have any money for a hotel." I replied, trying not to conjure up too many bad memories.
"I will buy you a house."
"That's. . .that's really generous of you." I said, surprised.
"What you are doing is a great service to me, and I reward gestures of generosity with equally generous rewards. I can buy you a condo, near mine. It will be a nice house. They have a very nice view also, over to the sea and to Portland. Every morning I look out my window and laugh to myself at all the poor fools on that side of the river."
"That sounds great." I was still in mild shock.
"Do you have a car?"
"Yeah, I have a car."
"Would you like another car?"
"I. . .uh. . ."
"I will get you a car."
"You don't have to-"
"I want to. It is the least I can do."
"Th. . .thank you."
The car came to a slow stop. I looked out of the window to see the ocean, most of it hidden behind orange coloured buildings.
"Is that where I'll be staying?" I asked, as we descended the steps to a speedboat.
"Yes, probably in this complex here." she pointed to a building further over as she stepped carefully off the pier into the back of the boat, gesturing for me to do the same.
The water was turgid and disgusting. By the looks of it you could walk to Portland instead of taking the boat. It was scary to think what unimaginable horrors lay beyond the surface of Liberty's ocean. I bet plenty of problems are washed away out here.
The turbulent waters rocked the boat around, splashing us with muddy coloured liquid as thick as syrup. I shook as much as I could from my clothes, the rest stayed to form a dark stain.
The driver swerved around jagged rocks, almost tipping the boat on more than one occasion, provoking angry Japanese shouting from Asuka, who somehow was able to keep her rage under control until we docked at the other side of the sea. Immediately I saw a convoy of Cartel Cruisers, lined up like huge metallic blue criminals, not to be reckoned with.
No sooner had I stepped out of the shaky boat had Askua and her scared shitless driver departed for safer waters. I wondered how she expected me to get back. Pushing this thought out of my mind, I then wondered how I could dispose of six or more car loads of Cartel drug pushers without ending up as another lump in the ocean. The idea hit me when I heard a screech of tyres, as I jumped out of the path of the speeding van from where the noise originated. The van swerved clumsily around me, two bundles of papers sliding out the back to my feet. I gathered them hastily, as the sound of another van rocketing past alerted me, and I hid behind some empty barrels of tanker fuel.
I glared in menacing disgust at the cover. "El Burro's Donkey XXX", clearly hot property (as illustrated by the release date, two dates after today) which would explain the speeding van. A wicked idea came to me, and I took the magazine bundles under either arm and walked to the factory across the spacious loading area. Making sure no one was watching, I emptied roughly equal quantities of stolen porn into each cruiser's sun roof, leaving me with the distributor's ticket, naming the owner to be El Burro, and providing his number in case merchandise be stolen or lost. I promptly called the number, getting through in little more than three rings, explained innocently that I saw some bad men in blue jeep things with these magazines and decided it was important to call him.
I waited from behind the fuel tanks again as in just over four minutes, a hoard of hot rods with flame paint jobs barrelled into the docks, hammered into the Cruisers, and flooded into the building guns blazing. The building lit up with gun fire. I could hear shouts and cursing from the inside, the steady beat of the bullets leaving the guns and plunging into careless foes and the hoarse wheezing screams which followed. A window shattered on the second floor as a Hawaiian shirted man plummeted to his death below, riddled with bullet holes and oozing puddles of blood onto the paving.
Almost as soon as it started, it was over. Dozens of Diablo hoodlums stormed out of the building with bats in hand and went to work on the Cruisers, smashing them enough that they could reach in for the magazines, before returning to their muscle cars and returning to wherever they came from.
After the show, I called a taxi, and watched it skid expertly into the docks minutes later. The driver carelessly flung open the door and ordered me inside, I told him where I was heading, he reluctantly accepted, and gunned it down the path to Staunton.
Tomorrow, if all goes to plan, I'll meet with Asuka again and maybe even get my house and some money. Things were really starting to look up. . .