Hardbingers

13

Jack straightened in the backseat when he saw someone step out of the warehouse. The skinny little buck-toothed guy they'd called Zeklos started walking away.

He rapped on the plastic barrier and startled Ibrahim out of his doze.

"Get ready to move."

They watched him until he turned right a block and a half away.

"Let's go."

"Follow him? But there is no traffic. He will see us."

"Just drive around. I'll stay down. Third time you pass him—if it comes to that—ask how to get to some street."

Jack slouched low in the seat as the cab started to move. He scratched his chest as they passed the warehouse. The skin had started to itch and burn again but, as before, quickly passed. He wondered about that but let it go.

"You are not a killer?" Ibrahim said.

The question startled Jack.

"Why do you ask?"

"I see this movie—Collateral—where killer takes taxi to killings. It is directed by Michael Mann. I am liking this film, but I do not want to be driving a killer."

Jack had to smile. "No, not a killer. Just need to talk to one of these guys alone. That's all. Just talk."

They turned onto Columbia, a wider, busier two-way. Good.

Jack peeked through the rear corner of his window as they passed Zeklos. He walked with his head down, his hands in his pockets. The picture of dejection. Someone wasn't having a good day.

"Is this an exciting thing you do?" Ibraham said.

"Not very."

"Oh. That is too bad."

"Hey, exciting isn't always fun."

After what Jack had been through lately, unexciting was a major plus.

"I think maybe you could tell me what you do here and I can write screenplay that I sell to movies."

"Screenplay?"

Had he somehow made a wrong turn and wound up in L.A.?

"Yes. I sell it to Hollywood. Maybe Michael Mann direct."

"Maybe he will. If he does, you'll be set for life."

As Ibrahim did a wide swing through the neighborhood, Jack switched his focus to the street signs they passed, trying to orient himself. Most had names; he'd have preferred numbers. As they returned, going the opposite direction, Jack snapped out of his slouch.

Where'd he go?

They'd reached the fringe of what might pass for a business district. All the stores were closed, but a triangular Red Hook Lager sign glowed in the window of a bar on the right.

"Wait here. I'll look inside."

When Jack reached the door—the place called itself the Elbow Room—he pulled it open only a couple of inches. And there at the bar, tossing back a shooter of something, sat his guy.

Jack peeled off another C-note as he hurried back to the cab.

"Here." He handed it through the window. "Find a place nearby to wait and I'll give you Ben's twin brother."

"How long?"

"Give it an hour."

"I don't know…"

"How many weeknights you make this much an hour?"

Ibrahim agreed to wait. Jack took his cell number and headed back to the bar.