Third Rail (23 page)

 

Harrison Avenue is packed with the lunch crowd. Harkness turns on Beach Street and drives past the medicinal herb stores and bakery windows stacked with mooncakes. The crowds thin the further they go. Harkness pulls over when he sees the unlit neon-red
0
hovering above Mr. Mach's Zero Room at the end of a deserted block. They're conspicuous even in the generic Chevy, his favorite undercover car.

“Okay, now what?”

“We're just supposed to wait,” Thalia says. “Won't be long. News travels fast.”

“Will Mach show?”

“No way,” Thalia says. “He'll just send one of his boys.”

Harkness scans the empty street, warehouse buildings lining both sides. A car could be waiting in any alley. There could be a lookout or shooter in any window. No street traffic, not that many people on the sidewalks. One way in, one way out. It's about the worst place to make a drop in the entire city.

 

About the time they start worrying that Mach's not going to show, a tiny woman in a green jacket taps on the window and holds up a paper bag.

Thalia reaches into the back seat for the money.

Harkness rolls down the window. The woman looks a little too authentic, as if she's an actress playing the role of Old Chinese Woman in a movie. “Got something for me?” he says.

She hands him the paper bag.

He opens it and looks inside.

“Your gun in there?” Thalia says.

“Not exactly.” A small turtle claws at the sides of the paper bag. Its jade-green shell is painted with red Chinese characters.

“Is very good luck,” the woman says. “Only twenty dollars.”

“What is it?” Thalia says.

“A turtle.”

“Gross.” Thalia shudders.

Harkness hands the bag back. “No, thanks.”

“Why not? Too 'spensive? Fifteen dollars, then.”

“We're too irresponsible to take care of a pet,” Harkness explains.

“Is only a turtle.”

“And we may be dead soon,” Thalia adds.

The woman shrugs and trudges away. Thalia puts the gym bag on the floor and they wait.

 

Half an hour later, a boy in a thin white T-shirt and baggy pants walks down the street toward them, smiling. He looks about ten years old, carrying a takeout bag loosely in one hand. When he stops next to the car, Thalia rolls down her window.

“Scram, smiley.”

He walks around to the other side of the squad car. “Food for you, mister.” He hands Harkness the paper bag.

Harkness sets the bag on the seat next to him and rips it open. Inside is a pint takeout container marked with the familiar red
0
. He opens the top to reveal a blue, sticky mass on top of steaming white rice. He lifts it. There's a swath of coarse blue hair on one side, shiny white scalp on the other. Harkness drops it back in the container, presses the paper lid closed, and shoves the whole mess under the seat before Thalia can see it.

“What the hell is that?”

“A message,” Harkness says.

“From who?”

“. . . Jeet.”

“About what?”

“About how we need to be really careful.”

The smiling boy is still at his window. He hands Harkness a fortune cookie in a plastic wrapper. Harkness opens it, cracks the cookie, and reads its message:

 

COMPLIMENTS OF MR. MACH'S ZERO ROOM!

 

Harkness crumples the slip of paper and tosses it on the floor.

“What'd it say?”

“That today is our very lucky day.” Harkness leans across the seat. “Here, take this. And go home. Now.” He hands his plastic gun to the boy, a gift to get him out of here.

The boy takes the toy and smiles. He wanders away, shooting the bright disks up at the gray sky. They catch the wind and soar, then rain down on the sidewalk and roll into the gutter.

 

A thin man with short black hair walks toward the car. He's wearing a shiny gray suit and mirrored aviator shades.

“I know that guy,” Thalia says. “Works for Mach. Nervous fucker. Major douche.”

When Harkness rolls down the window, Shinyman jams the nose of his automatic inside and starts shouting. “Give me the fucking money!”

Thalia scrambles for the bag.

“Just hold on,” Harkness says.

Shinyman's gun shakes in his hands. “Fuck you! Get out. Give me the money!” Shinyman backs up and waves his gun back and forth.

Harkness takes the gym bag from Thalia, opens the door, and steps out onto the street. Shinyman backs up a few steps and steadies his gleaming gun. Harkness walks toward him, one hand in the air, the other holding the gym bag. Tiny versions of Harkness advance in each lens of Shinyman's glasses.

“It's all in here.” Harkness waves the red bag like a bullfighter. “Twenty grand. And all the photos. Prints and files. Just like we said. Give me my gun.”

Shinyman backs away a little further, swinging his gun from Harkness to Thalia in the car. He reaches in his jacket pocket and takes out a wadded-up paper bag, then bends down to slide it across the sidewalk toward Harkness.

“Now—the money!” Shinyman's waving his gun around.

Harkness picks up the bag and opens it. “Just shut up for a minute, will you?” A Glock 17 sits heavily at the bottom of the bag, barrel up. Harkness grabs it and sees the familiar scratch on the grip. He checks the serial number. It's his. Harkness sticks it in his waistband and pulls his shirt over the grip. He's been waiting for this moment for weeks but now there's no joy in it.

He tosses the gym bag at Shinyman's feet.

“Here you go, scumbag.”

Shinyman rips back the zipper and pushes his hand around in the bundles of twenties.

Thalia flies out of the passenger seat and stands on the sidewalk, legs wide, pointing her crappy gun at him. “You got our money. Now get the fuck out of here!”

Shinyman freezes.

“Thalia, I got my gun back,” Harkness shouts. “What're you doing?” But she just starts shouting in Hmong.

Shinyman shouts back.

Thalia shouts again.

Harkness can't understand any of it, but it doesn't sound good.

Then Thalia's blasting away, shots echoing in the narrow street. Shinyman's about ten yards away, eyes pressed closed, hugging himself. Thalia hits a store window behind him and it shatters.

Shinyman looks at Harkness, his eyes wide.

Harkness shrugs. He has no idea what his fierce girlfriend is up to.

Thalia squints, takes aim, fires.

Shinyman reaches up to press his hand where his right earlobe used to be, now a slow faucet of blood dripping on the shoulder of his cheap suit. His eyes widen as Thalia aims again, this time with her gun in both hands.

All they can see is Shinyman's narrow back and the red gym bag flailing as he runs down Beach Street.

“Okay. Show's over.” Thalia tosses her gun down a sewer grate. “Let's get out of here.”

 

Thalia keeps looking back long after they leave Chinatown.

“You're lucky that guy didn't shoot back.”

Thalia turns toward Harkness. “Mach told him not to shoot me.”

“How'd you know that?”

“Marnie told me.”

“And me?”

“You, he was okay about shooting.” Thalia twists to look out the back window.

“It's over, Thalia,” Harkness says. “Calm down.”

“It's never going to be over, Eddy,” she says. “Mach won't let you off the hook.”

“We gave him what he wanted.”

“No, we didn't.” Thalia reaches into the back seat and pulls out a bulging black leather purse. She drags it onto her lap and opens it, revealing the stacks of cash.

Harkness skids the Chevy to a stop in front of Jacob Wirth's, sidewalk tables clotted with tourists eating German food and drinking beer. “What the hell's that?”

“The money.”

“What was in that other bag?”

“The box of photos,” she says. “And some dummy stacks of cash that I put together last night after you fell asleep. Crisp hundreds on the top and bottom, paper in between. Painted the sides to look like cash. Got to say, they looked real.”

“Are you crazy?”

“No, you are, Straight Ed. You were about to give twenty grand to a fucking felon you busted a couple of years back.”

“We had a deal with Mach.”

“Which means nothing. Mach never forgets. And he never forgives. So I figured, fuck him, we might as well get your gun back and keep the money.”

“You knew all along that you were going to rip off Mach?”

She nods. “Pretty much. The guy's a shitbag.”

“The guy's a sociopath,” Harkness says. “Why didn't you tell me what you were up to?”

Thalia gives Harkness a hard stare. “So you could talk me out of it?”

“Yes.”

“I couldn't give him the fucking money,” she shouts. “I worked for him for years, Eddy. The guy wraps you around his finger and never lets you go. He'll just keep hitting you up for more. Besides, we need money more than he does. We can leave, Eddy. Go to New York and start over. No more parking meters. No more bars. No more bullshit.”

“I can't, Thalia. My mother's got dementia. My sister needs me. My brother, too. You don't just flake on your family when you feel like starting over.”

“You don't owe them anything.”

“That's not the way I think about it.”

“Then wise up, Eddy. You want to be emptying meters in Nagog the rest of your life? Or are you gonna make your move?”

Harkness watches the cars stream past. Much as he loves the city, Boston has jilted him over and over.

“C'mon, let's go,” Thalia says. “There's a train to New York in half an hour.”

Harkness shakes his head.

“Why not?”

Harkness gives Thalia a truth-inducing stare. “Were you really thinking about both of us when you came up with your big plan? Because I don't think you were.”

She looks away. “Of course I was, Eddy. And I can't believe you're mad that I ripped off a guy who sells Thai girls for a living.”

“I'm pissed because you keep lying to me.”

Thalia's looking at the restaurant, the street—anywhere but at Harkness. “I'm your girlfriend. You got to trust me. I don't fuck just anyone.”

“Neither do I.”

“I didn't take your gun, Eddy. If that's what you're still worried about. Marnie did it on her lonesome. I had nothing to do with it.”

Harkness reaches over and opens her door. “Just go, Thalia.”

Thalia gets out and slams the door. She stands on the sidewalk, drops of rain in her auburn hair shimmering like mall diamonds.

The tourists turn to watch.

She glares at them. “What?”

“Catch your train. Go to New York,” Harkness says. “Or wherever you want to go. This should get you there.” He shoves the bulging purse through the open car window.

“Fine, I'm leaving, Eddy.” Thalia starts to cry. “And yeah, I'm taking the money. I earned it. I hadn't set up this deal with Mach, you wouldn't even have your gun now. Your troubles are over. You'll be heading back to Boston. Don't need me anymore
.”
She wipes the tears away with her fingertips.

“Quit fucking staring at us,” she shouts at the tourists.

Harkness thinks about how easy it would be to tell his devious girlfriend to get back inside.

Thalia leans toward him, her eyes gleaming. “We're not over for good, you know,” she says. “Just for now. Anyway, I'm not into the whole straight and narrow thing,” she says. “The party hasn't stopped yet. At least for me.”

“Never will,” Harkness says.

She squints down the street. “My advice? Get out of Boston, Eddy. Or you'll die here. Right on the historic cobble-fucking-stones. Mach'll get you. Or some drug dealer you pissed off. Doesn't matter how it happens. Dead is dead.”

Thalia backs up and waves to the tourists before turning back to Harkness. She smiles. “See you 'round, Eddy.” Then she's skittering down the crooked streets in her tall boots and narrow jeans, her white leather jacket getting smaller and smaller like a puff of cloud that disappears in the summer sky.

R
ED HARKNESS LIKED TO SAY
that a
ny fool could get rich but only a clever man could be interesting. Driving through the Back Bay, past plush townhouses and boutique hotels, Harkness remembers this bit of advice, which came long before he uncovered his father's clever but felonious version of investing.

Harkness has his gun back, nestled in its holster again and locked down by its leather strap. But Thalia's right, his troubles aren't over. To stay alive, Harkness has to be clever—and fast.

He pulls in front of Thalia's loft and runs up the stairs, slides the door aside, and steps inside.

“Thalia?” His shout echoes across the empty loft.

No answer.

Something heavy hits Harkness on the back of his head and he tumbles to the splintered floorboards.

So much for clever and fast.

 

Harkness wakes up handcuffed to the radiator. Thugs in suits are pushing over furniture, dumping out drawers, and breaking up the loft like a clumsy hand lurching through a dollhouse. The upside-down face of Mark Sarris hovers above him. “Tell us where they are!” he shouts.

“What?” Harkness says.

“The fucking photos.”

“Gave them all to Mach.”

“Sure you did.”

Sarris kicks him in the head and the room goes black again.

***

Sunlight floods the destroyed loft, quiet now. Sarris and the others are gone. Mr. Mach's face drifts above Harkness. He's holding up a prescription bottle.

“Feeling sick?”

Harkness shakes his head. His ears are ringing and his head throbs.

“Maybe you need this.” Mach opens the bottle and pulls out a silver thumb drive.