Shattner held onto the side of the van desperately as it rocketed down the street, its souped-up engine releasing all its horses. He glanced nervously at Diego, who was directing the men to fire at the cops.
Shattner shouted above the racket, ‘You’re not going to fire at them, are you? That will make this worse.’
Diego looked at him contemptuously, and before he could answer, the gangbangers opened fire. They didn’t see if their shots had any effect as the van turned a corner and then immediately slipped into another street and took yet another turn, where it slid into an open slot. The four men jumped out, took the remaining stash, and ran away, disappearing in the traffic.
Diego pushed Shattner ahead of him, the two walking briskly but not noticeably hurrying, blending in the ebb and flow of the street. He nudged Shattner into a park, where they sat, outwardly relaxed, till it grew dark.
Smart move, thought Shattner. Parks won’t be the first place the cops look at.
They broke into a run-down Honda Civic when night set in, and drove out of Gloucester City.
Diego hit his phone as soon as they were clear and back on the I-95, calling several numbers, speaking rapidly and angrily in Spanish.
‘How many kilos did we leave behind?’ Shattner asked him once Diego had fallen silent. Instead of answering, Diego pulled his gun and pointed it at Shattner.
‘How did they know?’ he screamed. The sudden move made Shattner swerve, and when he finished steadying the car, Diego screamed again. ‘Are you the snitch? How did the pigs know?’
‘I don’t know, and fuck you, I’m not a snitch,’ Shattner screamed back.
He turned to face Diego fully, ignoring the car, ignoring the traffic.
Rage flooded through him, string-tight nerves and adrenaline needing a release. ‘Kill me, you bastard, and get it over with,’ he screamed, spittle spraying on Diego.
‘You are the enforcer, right? Hot-shot hit man, feared by all? You all suspect me of being the grass, don’t you? Come on, kill me, you motherfucker.’ He pushed his face to Diego’s, forcing the barrel tight against his head, his eyes looking into the killer’s eyes.
Diego’s finger tightened on the trigger as Shattner looked at him fully, one hand on the wheel, one foot hovering over the precipice.
A long-haul truck overtook them in the fast lane, its horn blaring contemptuously, penetrating the car and cutting through the adrenaline.
Diego lowered the gun and said, ‘Drive,’ and fell silent.
Shattner turned to the road, his hands trembling slightly against the wheel; if Diego noticed them, he didn’t say a word. After a while Diego wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket.
‘If you spit on me again, I will kill your son and Jose will fuck your daughter in front of you,’ he said matter-of-factly.
It took a long time for Shattner’s heart to start beating normally after that.
Diego made him drive all across Brooklyn, making random turns as he resumed his calls, speaking in a calmer voice.
It was past midnight when they reached the garage, no lights burning and no movement. Yet, when they entered the garage, a shadow detached itself from the other darker shadows.
Jose Cruz.
Diego went over to him and had a low conversation while Shattner waited in the Honda. Shattner didn’t know what to expect now and had his Glock between his thighs, his hand on its grip, ready in case either Diego or Cruz or both opened fire on him.
They didn’t.
After a very short conversation, which featured no cursing or yelling, Diego came over and got in. He made Shattner drive to Coney Island, to a car-recycling and salvage yard that Shattner suspected the gang owned. Diego disappeared in the depths of the yard and came back with a can of lighter fluid.
They doused the interior of the car with the fluid and lit it with a match.
It was the early hours of the morning by the time Shattner got to his apartment. He entered quietly and paused outside the bedroom, listening to Shawn and Lisa asleep, both of them accustomed to his absences, his children fast-forwarding to adulthood without him.
The weight of the day and the sight of his children brought him to his knees. He dimly wondered why he’d not been shot by the gang. If he was in their place, he would’ve shot a suspected snitch without a second thought.
Maybe I’m not the only one under suspicion. Or Diego wanted a white face around him to get away from that place, and now I can be killed.
He sat there for a long while trying to think in their shoes, and then gave up and dragged himself to the bathroom to clean up, and when he came out, his children were up and getting ready for school.
Lisa ran over to him, and he scooped her up, crushing her tight, feeling her small heart beat against his. ‘I missed you, Daddy.’ Her voice was muffled against his neck.
‘I missed you too, princess,’ he replied, his face in her hair, and the warmth of her breath and the fresh smell of her hair brought back the cold determination to set things right for them.
Once Shattner walked them to school, he made his plans. He wasn’t sure how long his employment at the garage would last. He smiled grimly at that thought.
Heck, he wasn’t sure how long he had to live.
He returned to their apartment, to the closet in the bedroom, and pulled out the lowermost section, right out of its slide. Taped to the rear of it was a thick wad of cash. He pulled out the drawer above it and removed another Glock 30 taped to its rear and three magazines of ammunition. He went to the kitchen and removed another stash of cash, another gun, and more ammunition.
He packed them in an anonymous satchel and caught the subway to Manhattan. He stowed one cache at a baggage locker near the Port Authority bus terminal and another at the cruise ship terminals. He then went to his regular small arms supplier and bought extra magazines and other odds and ends.
He would try to stick it out at the garage; he needed the money. But if necessary, he was ready to wage war.
Chapter 5
The garage was closed the next day.
Shattner peered above the gate and saw that the garage was deserted, with no movement from within. He looked to see if there was any notice put up about the closure; there was none.
After an hour of hanging about, he gave up and made a call to Diego. Diego didn’t pick up, and after several rings his call went to voice mail. Shattner didn’t leave a message. Diego wasn’t into voice mail. He called the office number for the garage and, after several rings, got the teenager’s recorded voice stating the opening times for the garage.
He hung around for another hour, trying Diego’s number repeatedly with no response, before making his way slowly back to the apartment. The absence of any information was eating away at him, his mind conjuring various scenarios when the terrible thought struck him.
He stood still on the sidewalk, oblivious to the cursing of the pedestrians who were forced to flow around him.
He pulled out his phone and called the children’s school. After a five-minute harangue with the receptionist, she put him on hold, and after a million years, the cool dry voice of Mrs. Harwood came on.
‘Ah, the missing father. What’s so important, Mr. Shattner, that you had me dragged out of a lesson?’ Sarcasm. A New Yorker’s birthright.
He breathed deeply, oxygen filling his mind, trying to blow away the mist in his head and mute the roaring in his ears.
‘Mr. Shattner?’
‘Mrs. Harwood, are my kids in school?’