This Guy #4

The rooms at the Marriott were really nice after the last places we'd stayed. I did my best to use all the hot water they had, but eventually the heat made me dizzy and I was forced to admit defeat. I threw open the windows letting in a blast of chill air. Sitting on the end of the bed facing the window, my heart pounded, I reveled in the sensations not letting any thoughts intrude.
Niklas let himself in from the sitting room with an armful of clothing. He tossed a few items onto the bed I was sitting on.
"I didn't know your size, so I just got the biggest they had." He grinned mocking me.
"What the fuck is this?" I held up the clothes and turned to him. He had actually bought a suit for me. It was some dark shade of grey, there was an ivory colored shirt that might have been silk.
Niklas quirked an eyebrow at me, "It's a suit, Alex" he paused slightly at my new name. We had agreed to only using the new names, so we wouldn't slip up when it was important.
"No shit?" sarcasm dripping, "Didn't I say something about jeans, t-shirts, maybe a jacket?" I tossed the clothes onto the bed.
"It won't work." he shook his head, "If we're going to find him, we'll have to check bars and clubs like where he found me. You can't get into them wearing jeans, looking like some redneck biker." He had given this some thought; grudgingly I pulled on the shirt and pants. It actually fit rather well, looked good too, who knew Niklas was such a fashion guru. I teased him a little but I wasn't that unhappy with how I looked.
I did have to draw the line at the shoes he picked though. They were very fashionable shoes I'm sure, but with the soles they had I was pretty sure if i had any trouble the first thing I'd do is slip, fall, and bust my head open. Niklas assured me that after i scuffed up the soles a little bit, the leather would give me good enough traction. I must have looked longingly at my combat boots, Niklas shook his head "No way man, It would look ridiculous."
I had to bow to his knowledge in this area, for me fashion had always been easy. How scary did I want to look? If I needed to dress up I put a button-up denim shirt on and tucked it in, maybe polished my boots. I felt almost naked the clothes were so light and loose. I was like a real gangster when I tucked the pistol into my waistband, as far to left hip as I could so it would hide behind my coat. I practiced getting it out a few times and decided that I was going to avoid any quick draw situations. Otherwise I was going to shoot myself, or rip my pants off.
"Got your passport?" I asked him. He patted his coat for a second the nodded.
"So where are we going?" Niklas asked, I guess if he was supply and logistics, I must be operations.
"We're going back to where those guys grabbed me." He looked surprised at first then nodded.
"Then what?"
"That drug dealer called somebody after I talked to him. I want to find out who he called, who else he knows."
We were outside now and I stopped I had no idea what we were driving now. We had brought the beamer up, but decided to ditch it at a nightclub downtown. We took a cab to the hotel.
"Over here." Niklas used a remote to chirp the alarm on a black Lincoln Towncar with really dark tinted windows and brought chrome hubcaps.
"Nice, We'll blend right in." I can't help it I'm just sarcastic..
We drove around for two days before I saw the guy we were looking for. He saw us too, and flipped us off while he walked his corner. He must have figured us for feds or cops. He didn't recognize me I knew he couldn't see us through the side windows.
We watched him for a while then I had Niklas pull up to him.
"If he runs I want you to nail the gas and run his ass down." I instructed, he looked nervous his hands throttling the wheel, then his jaw clenched and he nodded.
We got up next to the guy and I opened up the door, gun in hand but held low I stepped out. He saw the gun right away, maybe he recognized me, and in either case he spun on his heel and took about two steps before Niklas nailed the gas. The car lurched forward tires squealing, and thudded into the runner. Niklas didn't let off the gas though the guy flew forward a foot or two landing on his hands then the car rammed him in the ass plowing him face first into the concrete of the sidewalk. The car finally stopped I ran up to them.
Niklas stepped out of the driver’s side door with the 38 in his hand and was looking over the hood of the car trying to see where the guy was. The dealer was screaming and when I got there my stomach lurched. The dealer's leg right above the knee was under the tire, trapped. His foot was twisted in a crazy direction, ankle probably broken. He was thrashing around trying to pull himself out and screaming curses pretty incoherently. I stepped up and kicked him in the side catching him beneath the ribs. The wind whooshed out of him and he gasped trying to suck it back in. My whole body trembled with adrenaline, my legs felt shaky but when he hollered again I kicked him again in the same spot.
"Ra.. I mean Niklas!" I yelled, "Dude you gotta back the car off him or I can't get him up!"
Niklas actually grinned sheepishly and jumped back in the car jerking it into gear and lurching back a couple yards. I grabbed the dealer by his jacket, trying to pull it up to tangle his arms so he wouldn't fight. He wasn't moving though, I guess the car rolling back over his ankle had made him faint. People were starting to watch from up and down the street, but so far no one had said anything or looked like they were going to interfere.
Niklas held the back door open and I rolled the limp body into the back. I was in the back with him, Niklas jumped in and we took off.
I stripped the guy down to his underwear looking for a gun, but he wasn't armed. I pulled off all his jewelry took his cell phone and pager and looked for any bleeding. He was unconscious but seemed okay, other than his ankle that was already swollen to about the size of a grapefruit, all purple and angry looking. I tied his hands in front of him with his shoelaces, then took my own shoelaces and tied his bound arms to a slipknot around his neck. I was pretty sure he couldn't run, and short of strangling himself he couldn't do much with his hands.
I realized I was breathing pretty hard, my heart felt like bursting out of my ribcage. I rubbed my hands on my legs to stop the trembling from the adrenaline.
"Where the fuck are we going?" Niklas yelled from the front.
"Shit. I don't know." I tried to think of a place we'd be secluded. "We got to go somewhere there are no people."
"Ok, ok- I got it we'll go towards the shore, take one of the old fire roads off the highway into the pines?" He looked at me in the mirror.
"No way man!" I shook my head, "Too many chances. What if we got stuck in the sand or a fucking ranger came by?"
"Shit!" Niklas was a driving a little too fast, hands clenched on the steering wheel.
"Slow down man. Go back towards Trenton, there's that little shit-hole motel. We can drive the car right up to one of the rooms in back."
"You sure?" Niklas looked at me in the mirror.
"Yeah we'll look like a couple of gay foreigners. We'll play the porn real loud so no one will hear this guy."

This Guy #3

I didn't really feel anything for the muscle guy I killed either. I was pretty wrung out and tired by the time I got back, and eventually between the drunken sobs and hysterical giggles I dropped off to sleep. My Friend took the bottle and my gun, and eventually he must have gone to sleep in the other bed. When I woke up it was light out but still pretty early. I didn't have a hangover and My Friend had hidden my gun, probably worried that I was going to go completely mental. Then again I had a fair recollection of how I'd been gibbering the night before, not something to inspire confidence. If it had been anyone but him I would have been embarrassed. Being reduced to tears by exhaustion, adrenaline overload, and near death experiences may be a healthy reaction, but I never liked to cry, not for any reason.
After a shower and some coffee, My Friend woke up and got dressed we went up the street for some breakfast. He glanced my way a couple times, looking away real fast when I noticed, finally I said,
"Dude, I'm fine. Seriously I was just fucking wiped. You know?"
He agreed out loud but doubt hung in his eyes, and the way his face didn't relax. I told him about my trip, when I got to my kidnapping he swore, "Damn! You fucking idiot! What the hell were you thinking?" I shrugged and continued; I glossed over the strangling a little, but told him enough to get the idea. He'd read it in the paper soon enough, suddenly I started, a memory of the feel of his pulse beating through that phone wire came out of nowhere. My hands started shaking, and I shook them and clenched them trying to ignore it.
I figured I was still tired, and probably starving. The late night boozing probably hadn’t helped. I attacked breakfast like I was rabid; eating a full plate of eggs, pancakes, and hash browns, then had two pieces of cherry pie with ice cream.
"That must be why all the killers in the Godfather were so fat." My Friend quipped. I jerked my head up and locked his eyes, surprised at his comment. It was funny though and I started laughing almost right away. Now that I was done eating all that food was sitting real heavy in my gut. It was like a big greasy bowling ball and after a few seconds of quiet belching I made a run for the bathroom and threw it all up.
I got back to the table the waitress a little old lady in red plaid came up
"You're not bowlemic, are you honey?" she asked, with a slow southern accent putting a hand on my arm. I'm not usually comfortable with strangers touching me like that, but she seemed nice so I didn’t jerk away.
"No, I just had too much to drink last night, my eyes got bigger than my stomach I guess." I forced a rueful smile, rubbed at my stomach in a pantomime of some cartoon character, or Wally Cleaver.
"Well just sit down there I'll bring you a cup of tea." My friend was laughing silently into his coffee cup. I gave him a glare but had to go back to smiling when our waitress showed up with a plate of crackers in little cellophane packets and a steaming cup of tea.
"Now here you go, just take it slow, you'll be alright." She patted my arm and swept off to another table.
"Now honey!" My Friend mimicked quietly. The tea was good though and I left a hundred with the check on the table when we left. My Friend kept teasing me for a while until I punched him in the arm, then he got worse. We were in pretty high spirits, considering, and decided to go up to Philly to try and contact some people I knew.
It had been a while, I had been out of state so long the first few haunts we stopped by hadn’t even heard of the people I was looking for. The street drug crowd is like that though, more than a few months in one spot meant you were a plant from the police, luring in suckers. I finally got a hold of an old friend we called Wriggly, never knew his real name. He pretended he was called that because he chewed gum like a fiend, even when so high he couldn't walk, but we called him that because he was so thin and small. Cops had a hard time arresting him, they just couldn’t keep their grip on him.
One night a few years before after some pretty serious drinking, I had started brawling with some bearded ape named Jeremiah who tried to pretend he was tougher than me. He was tough enough to take a hit though, and we were standing in the mouth of a one block street slugging away at each other. We must have both been pretty drunk, we were giving each other turns, and I deliberately was avoiding punching him in the nose. After a little bit a pair of cops ran up and pulled us apart. I don't think we resisted too much, my arms were tired, and the last few punches I'd thrown had missed and skimmed off his face cutting him a couple times, and tearing quite a bit of skin off my knuckles.
Wriggly got all hyper or something because he charged the cop holding me. He had the cop around the throat and was kneeing him in the back screaming about pigs and LA and a bunch of crazy shit. I don't think he was even high that night, but maybe he was having a flashback. The other cop left Jeremiah against the wall and tried to pull Wriggly off his partner. Wriggly bashed him in the face with the back of his head and leapt to the new challenger throwing punches and curses, spitting and screaming in turns. Both cops leapt onto him and tried to wrestle him to the ground, it looked like they had him too. Then his arms reached out over his head and he just pulled himself forward twisting a little and he pulled himself right out of their hands. He was up and running up the street screaming laughter and both cops started chasing him. Me and Jeremiah shared a look then he shrugged and we both walked off in opposite directions.
They never did catch Wriggly and we avoided that section of town after that. All wriggly would say was that watching us fight had "got his blood up"; I guess he felt left out. Jeremiah and I ran into each other from time to time with no problems, but one night he must have started with the wrong guy. From what I heard he hit some guy once, and that guy's friends pulled pistols and shot him 6 times. The words "Fair Fight" seem to be losing their meaning in the world.
Wriggly put us up in his apartment, he hadn't changed much in the couple years I was gone, and he didn't seem to realize I had left. He was thinner and twitchier, he told me later he had stopped a bad heroine addiction by switching to crystal, and now he was trying to beat his meth addiction using coke.
Wriggly had a fortune tucked away in different banks from some childhood trauma, surprising for an addict to be able to hold onto anything, but it was so tightly scheduled even when he was out of his mind sick he couldn't squeeze any extra out of the accounts. Then eventually he'd get the next check and sometimes he'd blow it right away and do it all over again. Sometimes though he'd resist, and spend months living like a normal person, collecting CD's and chasing girls. He was in a good way now though, the drugs were working for him now, and he had a sideline going. A few guys who'd take gear from him and sell it somewhere else, he made a pretty good profit.
It made My Friend nervous as hell to stay there. He had more reason than ever to fear the cops right now, plus he never liked drugs to begin with. I was being nice to him and declining what Wriggly offered me, figuring I had enough problems without laying around stoned waiting for them to show up at the door. I did talk to a few of the guys that came by though. I needed new ids for both me and my friend. I needed ones that could stand up to traffic stop scrutiny. It seemed pretty impossible, I ran down a couple of rumors, but each guy I met had really shady paper, and one I'm sure was a cop. I got lucky, I was so paranoid they got nothing from our conversation that they could take me for.
It was a matter of time though, I figured if I hit one more undercover cop, they'd pull me in and try to scare something out of me. I got more careful, paid the meth runners some extra cash to look out for anything like that, and in one case I had the guy go in and buy some for me. It was bad, amateur work though, I burned it and put out the word that artist was crap. I wasn't having any luck and was getting pissed. Wriggly swapped our two pistols for two different ones, only one of ours had been used, but they were from the same shop, something I never thought of, but Wriggly did. Our new guns were a retired cop's Smith & Wesson, and a 38 special that was so filed down you couldn't even see the name on it. They were automatic prison time if they were found, but we couldn't go without guns and couldn't very well apply for a concealed carry permit.
The NJ press was all over the strangling, and shooting, reporting the start of a brutal mafia war. In Philly it never made the papers at all. There were a couple of vague descriptions of me, but they could fit any over 200lb white guy. Mostly they were looking at who ordered it, figuring me for some out of town assassin. If I wasn't so scared most of the time I probably would have laughed.
Wriggly was great about us staying, but word started to spread that he had hired some muscle and was getting big. We were starting to build him a reputation he didn't want so we had to get out of there. I suppose we could have gotten a room in some sleazy hotel for cash and no questions, but police raided them sometimes. Finally we met a guy who could get some German passports. He had friends over there that we sent our passport photos to, they had them put on their passports and then sent them over by FedEx all stamped and ready to go. They cost 30 grand, but when we got them they were real, or at least good enough to fool us so it worked out. We had a little less than 90 days before the visa expired, but for now we were almost legit. My Friend became Niklas Farber, I became Alexander Seiler. We got a pair of rooms in the Marriott and started planning our next move. I was determined this time we'd take our time and find a way to get That Guy off us for good.

This Guy #2

We spent a few days out of state, shacked up in a small motel eating takeout and drinking. The news was reporting the body as a gangland assassination, which pretty much cleared us; we had no connection to anyone or anything. Except for That Guy, he was out there somewhere, waiting for My Friend to poke his head out. I was a little surprised at my lack of feeling about killing This Guy. It didn't really matter to me at all, I did what I had to do, I guessed if I was more religious I might have prayed for his soul or something.
I had made up my mind to find That Guy. I was pissed that he tried to force My Friend to do this thing, mad that it made me a criminal protecting myself, my friends. I was pissed at My Friend too, for being a sucker, a mark. He was just bored though, and bored accountants have way too many ways to find excitement if they go looking. I made My Friend tell me how he ran into That Guy, what started this whole thing.
After he got done with school it had become habit for him to go to a little bar down the street after work and have a few drinks, watch the news, flirt with the waitresses. Nothing serious, no heavy drinking, no drugs he was an average late twenties office drone. My Friend met That Guy one night he was in a suit and looked familiar, so thinking he might work for the same company he invited him to sit have a few drinks. There was a story on the news about some Mafioso from North Jersey who was going to trial for money laundering. My Friend made a comment about how he would have done it different.
That's all it took. A few more drinks and That Guy had him describing how he'd do it. He even gave him some pointers, a few ideas to make it go smoother. They even wrote up the numbers on a napkin figured they could make over 100 grand totally untraceable. The beauty of That Guy’s part was that My Friend needed him to pull it off. It made them instant pals. Compatriot rebels out there fighting the system brought up all those rebellious feelings he had stored inside from high school. He saw That Guy every night he went to the bar after that. He was smooth though, never brought up their plan again, never talked about money; he became My Friend’s new best friend, listening to him talk, commiserating when My Friend complained about money or girls. He kept the drinks flowing, My Friend never had to open his wallet around there again.
A week or so later My Friend was feeling his stones a little and went out and got both his ears pierced with thick heavy rings. He pulled the old leather jacket from the closet started wearing it to work. He was drinking more and more each night, his resentment against the world growing. An old story but effective for all that. Then one late night That Guy pulls out the napkin with the numbers on it and gives it to him. Made My Friend promise to stay sober for a week and think about it, leaves him there. My Friend did, and after going over the numbers a few times, and making a few dry runs at work that weren't noticed, he went ahead and did it.
He took 112 thousand and opened an account in Central America. His plan of course to split it with That Guy, they both have a nice mid- year paycheck. That Guy had his own plans. When My Friend contacted him he sent over a few guys who took the bank codes and info leaving him bruised and bleeding and scared to turn around. He got stuck with nothing and for a few weeks lived in absolute dread the IRS or the FBI was going to break down his door.
Then That Guy paid him a visit, he brought My Friend a check for 12 grand, a “consultation fee”. All neat and clean, safe to deposit. It was such a joke, My Friend didn't throw the check in his face or even hit the guy like I might have. It was smart of him, the first smart thing he did. He told the guy never again, went back to work, tried keeping his head down. That Guy wasn't buying though and gave My Friend a new set of figures, calculated out to a cool million. He refused, but that guy kept asking, kept sending guys by. My Friend thought about the police, thought about the feds, and finally when That Guy gave him a deadline "Or Else" he thought of me.
We decided against trying to return the half mil he'd taken, it was time to relocate. Possibly they already knew about the missing funds, and with My Friend MIA from his job they'd tie it to him pretty fast. I got all the info I could on That Guy and went back up to NJ to try and see what I could about him. I left my friend at the hotel with the murder weapon, told him to move to a mid-rate hotel somewhere closer to the shore, get a tan, play the relaxed vacationer so no one would notice him.
I took the revolver with me, it hadn't fired a shot, and if I got pulled over they couldn't connect me with the other shooting. Hopefully no one else got killed with it before I bought it. I went to the bar where they met, spent a night or two looking for someone similar then started asking the bartenders some questions. They knew My Friend pretty well, he's always been extra friendly to bartenders and waitresses. No one knew That Guy personally they all saw him, knew him by sight. I got the impression almost everyone didn't like him; they had seen him lead my friend from happy bar-goer into angry drunk. They figured he was a drug dealer or something. His suits were a little too shiny to be a proper businessman.
I was stuck in North Jersey with no leads, no contacts nothing. It was kind of hopeless. I didn't know what I had planned on doing once I got up there. I guess too many movies made me think that bartenders always had the answers. Then I did something really stupid. It seemed brilliant at the time, but it was stupid. I looked up This Guy in the paper, then the phone book, and then I went to the apartment building where he had lived. It was a real slum, lots of criminal types hanging around the whole block.
The first guy I talked to tried to sell me some pot, but was happy to send me on to a guy he knew who knew more about "that Guy". Seems he was pretty regular in the neighborhood, but they all knew him by a different name. That guy must have made a phone call right after talking to me because on my way to see the dealer's friend three giant Italians screamed up in a gold BMW.
I almost went for the gun, but held thinking they would try to talk first. Wrong again, two of them grabbed me, lifted me off the ground and slammed me back first onto the sidewalk. My head bounced pretty hard, but I didn't black out right away. They started hitting on me pretty good, after I got punched in the face a few times my body felt like it was floating and I remember cold little peaks in the concrete poking into my cheek, being ground in before everything went black.
When I finally came to I was in a small room with no furniture and white walls. There was a patio door or something but the blinds were closed. Across the room from me was one of the thugs, obviously The Muscle for That Guy. He had my revolver in hand and was watching me with a bored look.
"What the hell man?" I sat up and took inventory of myself and despite the bruising and the splitting headache I seemed ok.
"You wanted to meet That Guy?" The Muscle asked.
"What?" I shook my head a little until the pain convinced me not to. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
The words were barely out of my lips and the guy had crossed the room in a bound and open hand slapped me across the ear and head, sending me crashing back to the floor. He took his time returning to his chair, keeping me covered the entire time with the revolver.
"Damn." It was about all I could say, I was still dizzy from having my head basketballed around the block, and I didn't want any more slaps like that.
"You were looking for That Guy"?" His voice was flat, calm.
"You watch too many movies." I groaned and held up my hands real fast, but I was still dizzy and he caught me with the pistol right across my jaw.
I spit out a mouthful of blood, from the cut inside my cheek, drooling it onto the carpet. I pushed myself back onto one foot. I wasn’t going to let him hit me again. He saw it, shrugged and leaned forward a little.
"You hit like a bitch." he lunged forward as I leaped toward him, pushing with everything I could force into my legs. I got real lucky and made it under his swing, grabbed him around the middle and just pulled us both to the floor. We fell in a tangle of flailing limbs, him thrashing to get out from under me, punching my head and shoulders with his free hand. I focused on just trying to get my hand on that gun before I blacked out. He managed to roll over enough to get on top just as I got my finger in the trigger guard. In desperate panic I pulled, not even thinking where the bullet might hit as the gunshot exploded around us. The Muscle must have been shot somewhere, he slumped to the side and screamed, but he didn’t let go of me. I held the trigger down, crushing his finger into it, not wanting to let it reset for another shot. He thrashed trying to get his other hand on the gun and free his finger.
We had upset his chair and the small table next to it. The buzzing of the line off the hook caught my attention. I grabbed a handful of phone and bashed him in the teeth with it two or three times, just crunching it into his face. As he tried to turn away I looped the phone cord around his neck twice and pulled. He clawed at his throat but I lurched up putting my knee on both ends of the cord. With my free arm I pulled as hard as I could dragging the back of his neck tight against my leg.
He went crazy as he felt his throat close up, I was struck by his fists and head a few times, I was petrified to let go so I twisted my arm around a few times so I wouldn't lose my grip on the line. I tucked my head down away from him and lay there panting holding the line taut. His flailing had lost all strength, his face filled with blood and was turning dark blackish red. His hands weakly slapped at my leg and arms, but I could not let go. All the color had been squeezed from my hands and the cord looked imbedded in my skin. I could feel his body trembling through the cord, his tongue was dark purple and protruded from his mouth, his eyes finally rolled back fully in his head.
I pulled the gun from his grasp and I sat back kicking myself away from his body letting the phone pull away from my twisted cramped hands. He wasn't moving anymore, but I checked for a pulse a few times. I almost shot him too, but I didn't want another shot drawing attention to the area. I pulled aside the curtains, saw I was in some kind of office complex. It was still daylight out, but beyond that I didn't know anything about where I was.
I pocketed the gun and took his wallet and keys. I left out the patio door, taking care to use a shirt to slide the door open and closed. I could have laughed then if I wasn't so sore. The cops of my blood and fingerprints on the phone and carpet, it was a little late to try to hide myself now. Around the corner of the building the gold BMW was parked, the keys matched and I took it and left.
It was pretty late that night when I got back to the hotel with "My Friend" he took one look at me and blanched.
"Don't worry. I won."
"Won what? What'd you kill the other guy?" He winced as he said it, but I couldn't help but laugh. My head was killing me, most of my face was swollen and bruised I had at least 3 giant lumps on my head. I started with a wheeze and soon was lying on the bed giggling like a little kid.
My friend looked a little scared, and then pulled out a bottle of rum from the fridge, held it out for me to take a swig. It braced me up a little, and I grabbed it from him and drank deeply, wanting the numbness. I choked up for breath and looked over. "My friend was sitting in the chair looking at me. I took another swallow of rum, swished around my mouth to clear the blood taste.
"Yeah I killed him." I started another chuckle but a bubble seemed to swell up right below my throat and it came out as a sob. Tears welled up in my eyes; I was shaking all over a little overwhelmed by an immense feeling of black dread. I think my friend turned away to be nice as I wiped my swollen face gently with my sleeve.
"Yeah, I fucking killed him."