Читать книгу The Anti-Gravity Steal - Gary Phillips - Страница 5

Ned Brenner put the back of his hand to his mouth and yawned to hide a possible tell as he considered the flush he now possessed. They were playing TV poker, Texas Hold ’Em, and the two of clubs had come up on the flop, the last card. His high card was a Jack of Clubs. Mott, directly across from him at the table, was trying to buy the hand Brenner had concluded. He was an investment banker and acted like he shit gold for the peasants to pick over. He’d up the ante, the raise going to the third man left, Adam…Adam something but, Brenner couldn’t recall his last name at the moment.

“I’ll see that and bump five hundred,” the one called Adam said. He tossed his chips onto the pile. The pot was sweet, a little over ten thousand. The raise was to Brenner, who tented his fingers, tapping them slightly against each other. Consciously, he did this whether he had good or bad cards.

“Interesting,” he said, reviewing the characteristics he’d observed of these two men from their now nearly all-night poker game. The evening had started off with seven of them but effectively had worn down to the three of them. Two others remained, an older man named Ted Hopper and a younger woman who only gave her name as Estelle. But these two had been coasting the last forty minutes or so, folding early or, in Hopper’s case, his chips were low, and he wasn’t buying more.

Brenner saw the raise, but didn’t up the ante. He didn’t want to scare off Mott, who he figured would raise again. Brenner didn’t calculate Mott having the nuts, the right cards, but the one called Adam had been harder for him to read. During the game, this other man had, at times, demonstrated a cautious, meticulous approach, given to little risk. Yet at other times, he bet like a riverboat gambler on a tear. The cards didn’t seem to dictate which way he’d play, but rather as the mood struck him. Sure enough, Mott doubled his previous raise, and Adam dropped out. Brenner then saw the raise and upped it.

“You can’t seriously believe you can top my straight flush,” Mott said. On deck were the three clubs in order; two, three and four in suit.

Did Mott actually have the Ace-five or five-six also in suit? Brenner looked evenly at his serenely grinning opponent.

The dealer, also their host, Devra Hamlish, regarded Mott, her eyelashes black and luminescent like a model’s. “Sir?”

Mott remained stone-faced as he saw the bet.

“Show gentlemen,” Hamlish said.

Mott had a five and six, only the latter card was a diamond. He had a straight but not a straight flush.

Brenner turned over his two clubs and pulled the chips to him. He’d already climbed out of the hole he’d been in, and, with this win, he was some twenty-three thousand to the good.

“You pull the club you need on the turn?” Mott said, trying to sound casual.

“Yep,” Brenner admitted.

“I’m done,” Hopper said, stretching. He stood next to the built-in sideboard, sipping a scotch he’d splashed over ice.

Adam looked at his watch. It was expensive but not ostentatious. “Me too.”

“And me, I’ve had enough fun for one night,” Estelle said dryly.

“Alright then.” Hamlish signaled for the bank, in a Rimowa Topas metal attaché case, to be brought over by one of the two guards who’d been on duty at the game. He was dressed in a dark suit, open collar, but wasn’t a bruiser of a man — though Brenner had noted the gun holstered on his belt beneath his jacket at one point.

The money was counted out to those who were owned anything, with Hamlish retaining ten percent for the house.

“You going to give me a rematch, right?” the competitive Mott said to Brenner.

“Anytime,” he said, putting a rubber band around his twin stacks of fifties and hundreds. He put the divided bills away in the inner pockets of his leather coat.

“Would you care for Rolf to walk you to your car?” Hamlish asked Brenner. She was a woman in her mid to late fifties, with a swimmer’s body, toned arms and legs. She wore designer outfits and there had been some work done on her face. But it had been done with a subtle hand. Her face didn’t look like one of those ghastly apparitions with their mouths frozen in a sardonic grin like that Joker’s, the cheekbones moved to where their ears were.

“I’m cool,” Brenner said as he also walked out of the lady’s place, a three-story brick Victorian row house on an old street in an old section of Near North Side Chicago. Mott was driving off in a Mercedes sedan and Adam was lighting a cigarette.

“You did all right, huh?” He puffed smoke into the hazy gray light, dawn less than twenty minutes away.

Brenner hunched a shoulder. “Sometimes yes, and sometimes no. Tonight, okay.”

“I hear you.” The other man nodded and started walking away.

Brenner headed in the opposite direction just as a black Lincoln Town Car rolled past him. Momentarily, he heard a disturbance over his shoulder and looked back to see two men grappling with a third one. He wasn’t sure, but he guessed it was the man named Adam they were trying to get into the Lincoln, its rear door open. The two were built like typical muscle, big torsos and planed shoulders evident under the material of their jackets.

One of the kidnappers, in slacks and a zippered nylon windbreaker, was shoving the upper body of their victim into the car’s ample rear seat area. The other man had Adam by his lower legs.

“That’s got him, let’s get out of here,” the one further out of the car said.

His talking covered the sound, what little there was of it, of Brenner dashing up to roundhouse kick him square in the side of the face. He dropped Adam’s legs and staggered backward like a drunken man.

The other one, partially in the car, his leg bent on the bench seat, was turning and rising out of the car, removing a gun from inside his sport coat.

At that moment, Rolf was more than halfway down the outside steps, pointing his Beretta at the hood with the gun. But Brenner moved faster and lashed out with the edge of his hand. He cracked the wrist of the gunman’s hand, and he yelped, dropping his piece, a dull finished Glock. Jabbing two stiff fingers into the hood’s chest, the would-be kidnapper began twitching with spasms as if he’d been shocked by a stun gun. He then fell to the sidewalk on his face and lay still. Brenner kicked the Glock away.

The first one Brenner struck had recovered and now held a semi-auto shotgun in his hand, plucked from under the front seat. He boomed it at Rolf and the other bodyguard who’d appeared behind him. Rolf, in front on the steps, was hit with the spray of buckshot in his upper body area. Grey dust kicked up around him as the pellets also blasted into a brick pillar of the porch. Hamlish’s man yelled in pain and went down.

The hoodlum shifted his attention to Brenner. Both stood beside the Lincoln. In the fraction of time it took for the shotgunner to again fire his weapon, Brenner had dropped to the ground below the blast. Like a runner sliding into a base, he used his legs to sweep the shotgunner off his feet. On the ground, still holding his weapon, the hood tried to twist around to employ the shotgun. But Brenner, also on the ground, rammed his heel twice in rapid fashion into the man’s stomach, knocking the air out of him.

Brenner got to a knee and took the shotgun away. Once on his feet again, he went to the rear of the Lincoln and pulled the dazed victim out of the back.

“How do you feel?” Brenner asked as he helped him over to the Hamlish house.

“I’m okay,” he said. There was a lump at the base of his neck where one of the men had hit him to stun him and make him compliant.

Rolf was on his feet being helped by the other bodyguard. Devra Hamlish was also outside, standing at the top of the stoop. Over at the Lincoln, the hood who’d wielded the shotgun was at the wheel of the car. The other one had managed to crawl into the rear. Brenner turned to stop them, but the woman spoke.

“If you wouldn’t mind, Mr. Brenner, it would be better for me if you didn’t subdue them as then we’d have to call the police, who tend to ask so many pesky questions.”

Brenner did as requested.

The man he saved to his host, “And no press.”

She smiled and nodded.

The back door opened, the Town Car roared away, the hood’s feet hanging out of the rear.

“You some kind of Navy SEAL, man?” The injured Rolfe asked Brenner as they all went inside. “I’ve never seen anybody with moves like yours.”

“I practice a lot,” Brenner said.

They sat Rolf on the couch, and Hamlish called a medical friend she said wouldn’t feel compelled to report the bodyguard’s gunshot wound.

“I can’t thank you enough for what you did, Mr. Brenner.” He put his hand out.

Brenner returned the handshake. “Ned. And no worries, Adam, right?”

“Yeah, Adam, Adam Damakas.”

Brenner grinned. “That’s why you’d like to keep this low key.”

Damakas said, “Exactly.”

“But looks like you might need to get yourself protected, huh? These dudes were for sure going to try and ransom you to your pops,” Brenner observed.

Damakas smiled crookedly. “You available for lessons?”

Brenner shrugged, “I’m always up for a new experience.”

The wounded bodyguard growled, “Well I’ve had the new experience of getting peppered by a shotgun, so I’ve had enough excitement for the time being.” His shirt was off, and he pressed a bloody towel to his wound.

• • •

Three days later, about an hour drive out of Las Vegas, Ned Brenner, wearing Number 19, goosed the accelerator of his Yamaha dirt bike as he took the last hill. Number 34 was ahead of him and his rear tire spun dirt and small pebbles into Brenner’s dark visor. Both lead riders gained the high ground with several other riders zooming up the hill close behind. The two were side-by-side as they shot across the stretch of level ground. A third rider, Number 13, in yellow and orange gear, began closing the gap.

The racers maintained their furious pace, the rhythmic burr of their engines filling the dry, hot air. Brenner’s front tire hit a gopher hole, and his motorcycle’s front end wobbled, but he regained control quickly. However, Number 34 took advantage and got out in front of him again. Number 13, a female rider, wasn’t losing ground either and was tight on Brenner.

The final leg of the race was a twenty foot leap from the hill down to the path leading across the finish line. The three and their machines rose off the end of the hill. Momentarily, they seemed frozen at the apex of their leap, stuck in a matrix of time. Then the racers descended to the earth again.

As one, the riders leaned forward on their bikes and bore down, each imagining their flesh fusing with the metal of their machines. Brenner gained less than an inch ahead of Number 34. But on his left came Number 13, and she crossed the finish line first, Brenner not two seconds behind, and 34 took third place. The crowd cheered and applauded. The three shook hands and hugged all around after removing their helmets. Thereafter, the awards were handed out as phones were held aloft taking pictures.

Later, at a bar called the Busted Spoke, the motocross riders and their fans partied hard in the heat of the late afternoon. Brenner and Sela Wu, Number 13, were at a table in a corner of the establishment.

“Ha, shit, Noc, you didn’t let me win, did you?” She sipped from a beer bottle, eyeing him as she did so.

“You damn well know me better than that, Sela. I play to win in everything, just like you.” He knocked the top of his bottle against hers.

She regarded him, a serious look settling on her face. “Except you do sky diving, snowboarding, b-ballin’. I know you won some golf tournaments, yeah? That time in the park, when I was with you, you pocketed some serious cash playing chess with two guys at once.”

“I’ve done that once or twice,” he said dismissively.

“And that’s how you make a living, bumming around, doing whatever it is that interests you?”

“More or less.”

She crimped her lips. “It all comes easy to you doesn’t it, Noc?”

“You mean I don’t appreciate my, ah,” he gestured to finish his sentence.

Wu said, “Whatever it is you got.”

“I apply myself, that’s all.”

“In everything?” she said.

“In everything,” he replied evenly.

“I’ll be the judge of that.” She got up, turning her head back to lay a loaded look on him.

He followed the woman out. At the end of the standing bar was a wiry, pleasant-faced man having a vodka and tonic. His features reminded people of the late actor and game show host, Richard Dawson. Brenner had noticed him at the race. He didn’t have a photographic memory, no one did. Some children, and a handful of adults, had what was called eidetic memory — they could call up clear snapshots of faces and incidents in their mind’s eye.

He didn’t posses that either, but he was observant and given the man evoked a once famous person’s features, his image had stuck with him. But Brenner wasn’t concerned about him or any other motocross follower as he got on his Yamaha and followed Sela Wu back to the motor court where some of the riders were staying.

Good thing, he reflected a little later, the other racers hadn’t yet made it back this hazy afternoon. He and the athletic Ms. Wu made loud sounds of pleasure like they were auditioning for a porn epic while making love in her room.

“Shit,” Wu enthused afterward, lying beside him, a taut leg over his six-pack abs, his now limp member in her hand. “You sure have a luscious dick, Noc.” She wasn’t going to feed his ego more and tell him she enjoyed having it in her mouth and other parts of her body.

“That’s the sweetest thing a woman has ever said to me,”

They laughed and let their sweat cool on their skin. After going at it again, the two stepped out and got some food at the Desert Rose diner two blocks over.

The following morning, minutes past dawn, Brenner left her room and got on his bike resting on its kickstand. He put on his helmet and started his machine and quietly rode off the lot, his wheels crunching on the gravel. He went halfway down the block, parked his bike, and walked back to the motor court.

Purposely, he didn’t cross the gravel but came back along the thin concrete ribbon of a walkway to the rear of the establishment. Then he went up the stairs to the second floor. He knocked lightly at a specific door and said, “Problem with your credit card, sir.”

There was movement on the other side. A man cleared his throat. The night locks were undone, and the door opened to a sliver. Brenner shoved it wider and stepped quickly into the room. He held a set of folded up nanchakus, nunchucks they were commonly called, in his hand. Brenner shook the folded nunchucks at the pleasant-faced man. The martial arts weapon was made of two stout and short wooden clubs joined by a short length of chain. He’d removed them from the backpack strapped to his motorcycle.

“You were in the Desert Rose and the bar yesterday,” Brenner said calmly. “I don’t think it was a coincidence.”

Calmly as well, the other man, in his forties Brenner estimated, held up his hands. “I’m quite sure you know how to use those things,” he said, pointing at the nunchucks. “I can assure you, I won’t give you any reason to beat a rhythm on my graying head.”

The man was dressed in sweat pants and a t-shirt, but Brenner imagined he’d look at home in an old-fashioned smoking jacket and silk pajamas. He added, “But how did you know I was staying here as well? I made sure to let you two lovebirds leave ahead of me last night.”

Brenner took a step toward him. “You jonesing for Sela, man, that it? I can cure you of that condition real quick.”

“Mister Brenner, violence is not necessary, really.” He gestured toward the round table and the two chairs found in each room. “Have a seat, and I can explain why we reached out to you.”

“I don’t give a shit about no, ’we,’ understand?” When he’d spotted the pleasant-faced man again the previous night, he’d wondered about such being happenstance. When he and Sela Wu got back to the motor court after dinner, he’d gone back out to the front desk later. On duty was an overweight but pretty twentysomething behind the desk who’d checked him in when he’d first arrived. She’d also been at the race, and, after a bit of flirting, including laying his phone number on her, he got the room number for the dude that looked like that guy her parents used to watch on TV.

“I represent an entity that could use a man of your talents,” the older man was saying. He’d sat down, talking up to the still standing Brenner. “My name is Efrem Koburn, and yes, this looks a little creepy, but I’m no freak. I just wanted to see how you handle yourself; how you were when not on stage, if I make my meaning clear.”

“You don’t.” Brenner wasn’t sure how to interpret the vibe he was getting off the man. He seemed sincere, but he also seemed like a man practiced in the methods of persuasion.

“Let me show you this.” Koburn was up and reaching for his folded pants atop the small dresser. Brenner let one of the nunchuks dangle, ready for striking. Koburn had his wallet in his hand and removed a card. He handed this to Brenner.

On the car it read, VIGILANCE INITIATIVE, and there was a phone number below the name that was an 888 number.

“Scuba diver, award-winning surfer, you can fly a jet, you’ve won mixed martial arts matches.” He flicked his hand as if he were a magician about to make the lady appear. “You’re a high school dropout, yet I’d wager you appreciate the physics involved in where your sweet spot is when making three-pointers.”

The stranger smiled faintly at his six-foot three-inch visitor, who, though still, gave the impression of a fluidly muscled jungle animal capable of beauty and harm in its actions.

“Your nickname, Noc, that some kind of surfer term? I would have thought your friends would have an affectionate term for you for the seemingly effortless way you have of mastering various skill sets.” He considered what he was saying then added, “Oh, is it some sort of idiomatic rendition of how you knock out, eliminate, your competitors? Possibly originated by a drunk buddy in a bar?”

A stoic Brenner said, “You got a point, Koburn?”

“You’re wasting time just getting by, Ned, earning pocket change and the rent money on your abilities. You could be doing so much more for yourself…for your fellow man.”

“Vigilance some kind of pyramid scheme, huh? Gonna recruit me to sell highrise condos on undeveloped parcels?”

“How about saving lives, fighting for justice?” The pleasant-faced man got serious.

Brenner crumpled up the card and tossed it on the table. “How about you make sure you stay away from me and Sela? You just do that, and leave your blowing smoke for the suckers.” He walked out while the other man shook his head slightly.