crush the weaker by the strong. I believe Tolstoy captured the essence of it in
“But-”
“I am not bullshitting you, Vaslav. Twenty-four hours. I know you can make this happen.” Heron turned and began walking back to the cafe.
Vaslav spun and accompanied him.
“You’re an ugly, bad man, Vaslav. But you’re a known quantity. I would prefer not to have to deal with another ugly, bad man, but you will lose your position of prominence if you don’t help me on this. You can pass that up the chain of command. They will understand. Because you will be just the first of many in their organization — and the cost to them will be massive.” Heron reached over and patted Vaslav’s shoulder, brushing some dandruff off his leather jacket. “Massive, Vaslav. You don’t want that.”
Chapter 14
Rodney Everin sauntered down the sidewalk in Orange, New Jersey, carrying a plastic bag containing a late lunch — a six pack of beer and a sandwich from the corner market. The balmy afternoon sunshine warmed his rugged features as he meandered back from the store. The hangover from the prior night’s festivities was a dull pounding in his frontal lobes — he was hoping the first or second of the frosty tall boys would dampen the worst of it. Even sleeping till one in the afternoon hadn’t blunted the throbbing. But a little hair of the biting dog worked every time.
He passed a pair of women standing outside a beauty salon, smoking, and nodded at them with a smirk, taking care to flex his considerable upper body muscles so they could appreciate his physique.
“Yo. Howsa bout you and me take a load off and have a little drink?” he shot out at both of them. “Someplace cool and private?”
“Drop dead, lowlife,” the little brunette suggested before returning to her conversation with the blonde about how she was going to kill someone named Tanya if she came anywhere near her again.
“You’ll be begging for it come Friday night, baby,” he hurled back, grabbing his crotch with his free hand.
The blonde made a gesture with her little finger, and the two cosmetologists cackled with glee.
“Dykes,” he muttered and then continued on his way. Plenty more where that came from.
As he approached his apartment block, he spied a government sedan with a giveaway whip antenna parked in front. His alcohol-ravaged synapses shrieked a warning as he slowed momentarily, trying to assess the situation. A pair of serious-looking men in suits were descending the stairs from the front entrance, surveying the street. One of them held a sheet of paper in his hand with a series of photographs on it — a mug shot and a driver’s license scan.
Rodney felt a tingle of apprehension in his gut. Instead of making the turn towards his place, he kept on walking, picking up the pace without seeming obvious.
As he reached the far end of the block, a voice behind him called out, “Rodney Everin. Stop. We need to talk to you.”
He kept moving, ignoring the man, hoping they’d think they’d gotten the wrong guy.
“Rodney. FBI. Stop where you are.”
That was all he needed to hear. Feds at his digs. Probably something to do with the deal he’d been trying to set up, to get a half-kilo of meth fronted to him so he could sell to his bar buddies. That must have triggered something — maybe the whole thing was some kind of sting, where he was being set up.
He debated stopping as instructed then thought about the marijuana in his pants pocket and the quarter gram of meth next to it — if they searched him, he would be going back to prison, no mistake, even if he hadn’t done anything on the half-kilo yet. The switchblade he carried for self-protection would be icing on the cake.
He made his decision and bolted, rounding the corner and sprinting across the street. If he could make it to the second block from the park, he could lose them — or at least jettison the dope so they’d come up empty on a search. Then all they’d have was his word against whoever’s. He hadn’t done anything yet, so wasn’t guilty of anything but being stupid or drunk when he was talking to the dealer. There was no law against being a drunken idiot that he knew of.
The man who’d called after him raced for the car, and his partner took off in pursuit at a run — he’d been no mean athlete in college and even after seven years he could keep up with the best.
Rodney swung around another corner and tossed his sack into a garbage can. The weight wasn’t worth the ten bucks the beer and sandwich represented. He fished in his pocket for the dope as he ran and palmed the little baggie as he poured on the speed. Startled pedestrians gave him a wide berth, the sound of his work boots thumping against the pavement all the warning they needed. Nobody wanted to get involved in something they didn’t understand, and an adult male doing the four-minute mile down the sidewalk was unusual enough to warrant caution.
“Rodney!”
The voice behind him sounded like it was a hundred yards back. He hadn’t seen his pursuer when he’d ditched the beer, but there was no mistaking him now. He still needed to lose the drugs, though, and the switchblade. He’d be sad to see the knife go — they were pricey these days, even for the crap blades from Mexico. Maybe he could recover it later.
A group of teens on a stoop cheered him on as he ran past them, whooping in delight at this unexpected entertainment on an otherwise boring day. One took up the pursuit on his skateboard for a few short yards then thought better of it when he heard the agent pounding down the sidewalk behind him.
He collided with a couple of metal garbage cans, spilling the contents into the gutter as he stumbled through the trash and recovered his footing. He ventured a glance over his shoulder and saw that the fed was gaining. Seeing his pursuer bearing down on him, he darted into the street, trying to time the traffic so he could put some distance between himself and the agent.
He almost made it.
The Dodge Ram crew cab slammed into him, flipping him into the air. He struck the pavement with a wet thunk, bouncing like a ragdoll for a few yards before rolling to a halt. A Chrysler screeched to a stop a few inches from his head, and the last thing he registered was the warm wet flow of blood streaming down his nose onto the pavement.
“What do you mean, he ran?” Silver demanded.
“Took off like a scared rabbit when he saw us. We advised him that we were FBI and demanded that he stop, but he just tore away like we were shooting at him,” the voice on the phone reported.
“This was supposed to be an informational interview. Low pressure.”
“I know. But he had a different idea.”
“Which hospital did they take him to?”
“University. He should be there by now. We’re on our way over, as soon as we get finished with the local cops. They’re dragging their feet on filling out the reports. You know how they like to bust our chops.”
“How badly was he hurt?” Silver asked.
“Pretty badly. The paramedics gave him a fifty-fifty chance. He hit the road hard. Man against truck doesn’t usually wind up with the man winning. Stupid bastard.”
“And you have no idea why he ran?”
“You mean other than he was an unemployed ex-con with no visible means of support who could still afford a little weed and some methamphetamines? My guess is that he was up to something and thought we’d caught him. Or he was afraid we’d take him in and find the dope and he’d back in lockup. And it could be he’s our killer — we’ll need to get a warrant for his place and search it, see if we can find anything incriminating.”
