The car rocketed in reverse for about twenty yards before the massive gun opened up. As the first volley of fire mulched the engine block and front window, Josef detonated like meat-filled popcorn. The car fishtailed, swerving left and mowing down one of the groovy young people in front of the Lion before hitting the brick wall of the Corona Theatre. The big gun kept punching it, the rattle of brass in the bed of the truck tinkling like laughter just below the heavy barrage of the slugs.
The car shuddered in place as it came apart, hundreds of rounds smacking into the metal skin at supersonic speeds, red tracers lighting up the street like insects from a Timothy Leary nightmare. Somehow, Vlad rolled out of the backseat and ran for the corner of Viger. One of his hands was gone and he stumbled along, drooling blood out of his sleeve and bellowing a single shriek that was a good three octaves higher than a kicked puppy could produce.
The gunner moved off the car, the red tracers stitching a line along the storefronts, shattering windows and whipper-
snippering two hipsters down like plaid-clad dandelions. When the line of fire caught up to Vlad he danced in place for a few seconds, rounds vapor-trailing through him in a heavy black mist peppered in chunks of flesh and bone. Glass and stone and brick behind him exploded as copper-jacketed lead drilled through his body. Car alarms went off. A lamppost toppled. Vlad disintegrated before he could fall over and the line of fire swung back onto the Town Car.
But the Lincoln had already exploded. Nikolai Bushinsky’s arm stuck out the shattered back window, wrapped in flames, the index finger pointing at nothing in particular.
Jimmy stood looking out at the city in the exact same spot where, less than twenty-four hours ago, he had learned about Rockatansky. Only now Nikolai Bushinsky and his sprogs had been gunned down like 1950s goombas. Of course there were also the nine dead bystanders, if the police reports could be trusted. But there is a hidden cost to everything, survival in particular.
Harold was in the apartment, just in case the police came around. They wouldn’t have anything concrete, not in any real sense of the word. Besides, no one really cared about the Bushinsky boys — just more criminal d etritus subtracted from the gene pool of the city. Iggy and Marcus left the truck on the street, along with the anti-aircraft gun; the weapon had been in storage since the seventies and the only one who knew about it was Iggy — who Jimmy trusted with his life (at least in a theoretical sense). And the truck had been stolen earlier in the evening. Nothing but a handful of dead ends.
The nine bystanders were the problem. Which meant at least one visit from the police. A few midlevel soldiers might get picked up. Maybe even smacked around. But Jimmy and Poppa would sit right here in the apartment, comfy and safe behind a thin veil of respectability. And a pile of money.
Jimmy watched the television for a few moments. Pulse News was on the scene, interviewing Dave McMillan, one of the owners of Joe Beef. Dave was a big guy in a ball cap and apparently didn’t need anything more than a plaid shirt to keep warm. He threw a cockeyed and somehow weirdly cherubic smile at the camera. “I saw the whole thing. Four guys left the truck. Small, wiry dudes dressed in black, wearing masks — like ninjas. They got into two waiting cars — red Camaros. I think they were speaking Russian. Maybe Czechoslovakian.”
Behind McMillan, a man sporting a CN cap jumped up and down, a meat cleaver in one hand, a Labatt Blue in the other. “Ninjas, tabarnak!” he kept yelling.
Jimmy smiled and nodded at the screen. “I like these guys. Iggy, send them ten cases of Scotch — the good Japanese stuff.”
Iggy lifted his head, scanned the screen, and reached for the phone.
Jimmy watched the rest of the report then turned off the set. There wasn’t anyone from the Bushinsky family left to come after him. No sons, grandkids, or nephews — no one of note. He had already reached out to mutual friends and they had happily jumped the fence.
Which left Tiny Rockatansky as the last pebble in his shoe.
Jimmy turned back to his apartment. The old man was in front of the fish tank, off to the side of the fireplace. Every now and then Poppa’s fingers moved and his first thought was that the old man was multitasking, but he dismissed it — who would Poppa be speaking to at this hour?
Harold was in one of the chairs flanking the coffee table, a tumbler of Scotch in his hand and a concerned look on his face — from his perspective there was always a downside. After all these years, Jimmy still hadn’t figured out if skeptical was Harold’s natural setting or if he had adopted the stance because that’s what Poppa paid him for.
“Thoughts?” Jimmy asked the lawyer.
Harold took a sip and shrugged. For a man who should have looked happy, he was missing a smile. “I think that Joe Beef stunt opened a wormhole. You two have set things back fifty years.” His delivery was Kissinger-esque.
A cell phone on the counter buzzed, and Iggy, who was doing his duty at the espresso machine, held it up. “It’s yours, Jim.”
Jimmy smiled at his old man, upright in front of the aquarium. He’d had a busy day with the moving crew and his standard late night-puréed meal was an effort to get down.
His father blinked. “You did good... son. You get a clean... slate... to work with.”
Jimmy took his phone from Iggy’s hand. He checked the display then thumbed the screen.
After a terse greeting, his associate in Ottawa relayed information on the banking transaction — ten million US dollars that originated in a Grand Cayman account had gone through Luxembourg en route to Nassau. Not an unusual route or sum, but it was the only transaction that fit the parameters. It had been sent by a law firm in Toronto. Her gave Jimmy a name and hung up.
Jimmy put the phone down on the counter and nodded at the bulge under Iggy’s sweater. Iggy raised an eyebrow but handed it over.
Harold was pouring another Scotch when Jimmy came back in with the chrome .357 in his hand. The lawyer topped up the tumbler and returned to his seat by the fire. He kept his eyes on the pistol while he took a sip.
“I found out where the money came from, Harold.”
“Oh?”
Jimmy raised the pistol. “Toronto firm. Dooley, Hall, Kerr and Reid. Heard of them?”
Harold’s eyes scrolled up and to the right. He nodded. “Big firm.”
“Remember the Place Ville Marie parking lot purchase? They notarized the papers for the seller.”
Harold took another sip of single malt, then said, “Good memory.” He looked over at Poppa. “Aren’t you going to—”
Jimmy pulled the trigger and Harold shuddered in place. His chest blossomed in a massive welt of red and he vomited up a rope of black blood that slopped into his tumbler and spilled onto his lap.
Jimmy walked over to the kitchen and placed the pistol in the sink. Iggy opened the hot water.
Back in the living room, Harold made a horrible wheezing sound, then slumped over.