Chapter 16
Vermeer stared as Mr. Brown ran through the cops with his car. Maybe the kid did have some courage after all.
Inside, the customers wailed and dove away, trying to hide from the battlefield that this was turning out to be. Mr. Orange dove away from the doors as bullets flew through. Vermeer would have shot Orange for being such a pussy.
Vermeer growled as he shot out a few rounds at the nearest cops. He didn't know if he hit them, but he saw that this was a bad situation. He hadn't faced anything this bad since Saipan. And he'd been a young guy then, with a company of competent troops.
He looked at Mr. Blonde, pouring bullet after bullet at the cops, keeping them away. He was the one reason that they weren't dead yet. Then again, he was also the reason that this situation had occurred.
Mr. White was firing as well, crouched behind on of the display stands. Mr. Brown had parked the car not far from the store, and was firing wildly.
Mr. Pink suddenly yelled, "Fuck this shit!" and bolted out. Vermeer shook his head: that guy was gutsy as hell. He heard bullets and screams of pain and he assumed that Pink was a dead man.
He turned back to Blonde, "We're chicken feed if we stay here!"
Blonde didn't notice him, and kept shooting. Mr. Orange was shooting, but Vermeer had not trust in the man's aim.
This was crap, he thought. He was trying to think sensibly, and this was just a bloodbath.
He felt a pain sear his shoulder, and he knew he was shot.
"Fuck!" he roared as he grabbed his shoulder. Thank God it was his left shoulder, he thought. He was right-handed.
Mr. Blonde suddenly burst through the door, his arms with life of their own as they seemed to point the guns at every single cop there.
Mr. White saw this as an opportunity, and grabbed Mr. Orange, heading for the door.
Vermeer was the last one in the store. He knew it was now or never.
Dropping his empty gun, he pulled the other ones from his belt and lumbered out as fast as age allowed him.
As he charged out, he saw Blonde diving behind Mr. Brown's position and firing. He didn't see Mr. Brown and assumed he was dead. Mr. Orange and Mr. White were making their stand on the other side of the parking lot, trying to work their way towards the car.
Vermeer shot at the cops bunched around their cars, trying to make sense of this. He felt another searing pain in his leg, and he almost dropped to the ground. This was ridiculous! He had to get out of here!
He began limping away as fast as he could, shooting all the while.
The cops began moving after him, but Mr. White accidentally helped out Vermeer by renewing his shooting. The cops turned back to him and Orange. Vermeer crawled around the corner of the store.
Sitting upright, he made sure his guns were fully loaded. He sighed in pain: this was hurting like hell. He knew that he was done for. All that remained was to make a last stand and die with his boots on. This was how it ended for Klaus Vermeer, Mr. Blue, hero of the Second World War, loyal friend, and loving husband.
"Toby," Vermeer moaned as he looked at the cops working their way to where he was. He stopped himself saying her name again. He wouldn't dishonour her memory by invoking her name on a crime job.
All the same, he wished Toby were here. He missed her more than ever knowing that he was going to die.
That was when Vermeer saw his chance. An alleyway between two chain-link fences. If he could make it out through there, he had a chance.
He lurched forward in a zest for life. He heard screams, followed shortly by warning shots.
He tried to dodge, but he was too slow, another bullet hit his already wounded leg. Roaring in pain, he headed through the narrow passageway.
The cops were chasing after him, he could tell. Their footsteps pounded on the pavement, their voices getting louder and louder.
Turning around, he fired emptied his ammunition at the group of police officers. He was sure that at least two of them were down, but the others ducked for cover and were saved.
Using this time as best he could, Vermeer limped off, groaning at the pain in his leg and shoulder. He reached the end of the alley way and knew he had to keep going.
Suddenly, two guys in regular clothes stepped up in front of him, guns pointed right at his face, "It's over, motherfucker!"
Vermeer froze out of habit, cursing to himself.
The cops who were chasing him caught up to Vermeer and the other two. They pointed their guns at the two newcomers, "Who are you?"
One of the guys flipped out his badge while the other kept a pistol aimed right for Vermeer's eyes, "Sgt. Dan Fogler. We'll take this senior to the hospital to get that leg treated up."
One of the uniformed police spoke out angrilly, "Who the fuck do you think you are? We got this guy."
Sgt. Fogler growled, "We got special orders from the Captain. You want discuss it there or now?"
The other cops relented, and they headed back to the jewelry store. It wasn't hard: Vermeer had left a blood trail for them to follow.
Vermeer was getting weak from the pain. He looked wearily at the man, "Just fucking kill me."
Fogler laughed, "I doubt Joe would be happy about that."
Even in his pain, Vermeer jumped in surprise.
The second guy put his gun down, "Come on. We're taking you to a doctor that Joe knows."
"" "" " " "" """ ""
Later that day, Vermeer sat on a small chair, in new clothes, the bullets taken out of his shoulder and leg, his leg in a cast. Joe was sitting next to him.
"How do you feel?"
Vermeer grimaced, "I feel pretty fucking bad. What the hell happened over there? I can't believe it went so bad."
Joe sighed, "Eddie's off to go meet whoever's still alive at the warehouse. He got a call from Blonde."
Vermeer grunted, "We were set up, Joe."
Joe nodded, "That we were. You know who did it?"
Vermeer shrugged, "I'd say either Mr. Orange or Mr. Brown. Neither of them hit anybody far as I'm concerned. They barely tried at all."
Joe looked at his old friend, "I knew Mr. Brown well. He's no crook, but he's also a loyal bastard. He owed me and he fulfilled that payment as he could."
Vermeer looked at him, "So it was Orange?"
Joe's face hardened, "The only one I wasn't a hundred percent on."
Vermeer chuckled, "This ain't the first time it happened to you, Joe. You've been betrayed by newbies before. Back in '83 when that one kid turned out to be helping the FBI instead of us."
Joe paused, staring at Vermeer, "There were a couple of other times too." He spoke in an almost hesitant voice. Bad memories perhaps?
Vermeer sighed, "You know what they say. You can't teach an old dog new tricks."
Joe gave a fleeting smile, "Yeah." He looked almost relieved.
Twenty minutes later, Joe organized a taxi for Vermeer, "Your stuff's here, and you'll be outta here for Mexico. You'll meet a man on the plane who'll give you fifty thousand dollars to live easy. I don't care what you do after that."
Vermeer paused, "What do you mean?"
Joe sounded almost gruff, "It means what it means. I don't want to see you around here again. It's not safe for an old dog like you. Get away from this place and head out for the tropical islands. Live easy like they promised us after Saipan."
Vermeer smiled, but then paused. Something didn't feel right.
He looked at Joe, "Did you ever find out who Toby was?"
Joe slowly nodded, "Yeah I remember. I can't believe I fucking forgot about that girl. She was a cute little piece of work."
Vermeer imagined her again and felt miserable. However he pressed on, "What happened to her?"
Joe frowned, "What do you mean?"
Vermeer knew then that he was hiding something, "You and I have gone to war together, Joe Cabot. You and I have come back from places that ate up better men for breakfast. We stuck together when we came back. We took wives, we started living in the real world. We both turned away and entered our real line of work. We stayed loyal to each other all this time, and in all these years, you never gave me anything for free. You've rewarded me well, but never given a gift."
He pointed out to where the taxi was set to come, "This is a gift! I didn't earn this."
Joe shrugged, "Sure you did..."
Vermeer broke in, "No I didn't! I earned a trip to Hawaii with the others. This is something else entirely! You're putting me in a witness protection escape or whatever the fuck you'd call it. I get away for good. Why?"
Joe didn't say anything. Vermeer waited, then spoke, "What happened to Toby?"
Joe looked angry, "Is it all about that Chinese broad? What makes you think I-"
"Damnit Joe, you know what happened to her! I begged you to look after her until I got out! You got me out earlier than ten years, true, but you didn't save her. That was the one thing I've ever asked you and you didn't do it!"
Joe finally crumbled, "It was a tough time. You were in prison, and the other guys got a little eager about the void. They thought I was gonna get rid of you. Then there was that kid from outta town, Drexl Spivey remember?"
Vermeer nodded, "So?" He felt scared. He had a horrid feeling how this was going to work out.
"Well he turned to prostitution pretty fast. He had a bunch of blacks working for him- he always acted like a fucking idiot- and he heard about your situation. I tried to buy him off, but he was getting greedy, and I was up to my neck with the cops and strong-arms and shylocks takin' over, and I knew that Toby was done for without you.'
'So I asked her to help out with paying the ransom for her life. She was scared, because she thought you'd disapprove, but she was even more scared of us, and the fact that she and you would die if it didn't happen. So she sold all the jewelry in the house to get it, even that little armband she always wore. She didn't give that one up until after a while.
Vermeer nodded sadly, "It wasn't enough?"
Joe nodded, "Of course it was. It got her a ticket back to China."
Vermeer's mouth dropped open, "What?"
Joe shrugged, "I didn't want to give in to that slimy prick, so I found out where she came from in China, gave her enough money to live easy on for three months, and she got herself a plane ticket back home."
Vermeer paused, "When was this?" he said in a whisper.
To give the man his due, Joe looked pretty sympathetic, "A week after she visited you in prison. She didn't have the heart to tell you. She didn't want to hurt you anymore, she said to me. It broke her heart to see you hurt yourself in the marriage."
Vermeer sighed shakily, "She got out okay?"
Joe nodded, "I kept in touch with her for a month. She found another husband, because you annulled the marriage to her, remember? You thought she was dead anyway, but she thought if you heard she'd left you, it would be worse. So she begged me never to tell you. And this,' he finished gruffly, 'is how I pay you back for all that heartache."
Vermeer was moved almost to tears. Joe, his war buddy, had done all this for the woman that he had loved? He couldn't speak. True, he had been hurt, but what did it matter if Toby was happy? She was able to go back home and conquer her demons, while Vermeer could live his life however it came. Just an old dog standing by the reservoir of life.
The taxi came, and Vermeer shook hands with Joe for the last time, but not before saying one last thing to him, "Listen Joe. Tell the others that Mr. Blue died."
Joe gave a baleful smile, "I'll do that free of charge. I gotta go find that little prick Mr. Orange and give him the treatment that all traitors earn from me."
Vermeer felt sad at leaving this man, but he pressed on, "If you get the chance, tell Eddie that I wish him the best."
Joe nodded, "Good luck, Klaus."
That was that. An hour later, Vermeer boarded a plane that would take him to Mexico. From there, Vermeer planned, he would use the money to get himself a small place in Costa Rica. Hell, Uncle Sam's cash must be worth more down south anyway.
The man was there, and he handed Vermeer a bulging envelope which Vermeer put in the pocket of his jacket. It was going to be a smooth flight, Vermeer reckoned.
A middle-aged black woman dressed in a flight attendant's suit smiled down at him, "How are you sir? Do want coffee?"
Vermeer smiled, "Yes that'd be nice." He wondered if Mr. Pink considered this a tipworthy job.
He thanked her- the nametag read J. Brown- and handed her a special tip.
The woman took the money, "What's this for?"
Vermeer shrugged, "A gift."
The woman pocketed it, "Well, thanks a lot."
Just as she turned away, Vermeer knew that Mr. Brown wouldn't have resisted asking, "Has anyone ever told you that you look like Pam Grier?"
But instead, Klaus Vermeer turned to looked at the clear blue sky, void of any clouds, and knew that he could finally relax.
End
Stanley Marlowe would like to acknowledge Quentin Tarantino's work as inspiration, and is grateful to all readers and reviewers.