Sharks Page 2

  They pumped the money into Freeport and ignored everything outside the city limits. Restoring the north’s beauty was low on the list of priorities for the powers that be. The hurricane had changed parts of the landscape itself, eroding swathes of natural splendour and turning a decent chunk of the mangroves dead brown. The plains were ghostly each and every night, gripped by the hangover of Mother Nature’s wrath.

  It suited Vince tonight.

  He needed someplace discreet.

  He followed the road all the way to its desolate end — a locked gate drenched in rust, surrounded by shoddy outbuildings and a couple of sandy yards stacked high with the husks of old cars and towers of rebar.

  The gold on the horizon dissipated as the sun vanished, replaced by blue turning rapidly to black.

  Past the gate was the premises of a construction aggregate company, and beyond that, the north shore. Vince saw the gargantuan silhouettes of cranes and shiploaders, like behemoths guarding the property. But there was no one about — the workers had gone home for the evening, exhausted from gruelling early morning work, and the land was silent in every direction. Down south there’d be bustling activity. Tourists wandering the streets, loaded up on extravagant cocktails, red in the face from the thrill of gambling at the casinos riddling the city. That is, the casinos that had reopened. Several were still closed, which had hurt his boss’s bottom line. It was the reason he was loan sharking every day in the first place.

  Here there was the balmy wind howling in off the ocean, and little else.

  Vince pulled to the shoulder, killed the engine, and gave the 9mm Ruger at his waist a reassuring pat. He’d lived here for two years, but he refused to get comfortable. Comfort makes you a victim waiting to be exploited. Crime and violence were rife outside the areas packed with foreigners. A product of desperation. Tourist boards chalked the statistics up to murders involving internal competition amongst gangs in the drug trade. Their theory stated that if you weren’t involved in organised crime, and were only here for a good time, you had nothing to worry about.

  By that logic, Vince had a whole lot to worry about.

  He’d never been here for a good time.

  So the “over the hill” neighbourhoods were his home, and he spent more time in wastelands like this than the lavish overpriced tiki bar he’d populated for a short stretch of the afternoon. That slimy English bastard would be the death of him. Vince knew Teddy, knew the trouble the old man had brought on himself, but what did he expect? You borrow from a loan shark, you do so with the utmost confidence that you can repay said loan shark before things spiral out of control. Otherwise the interest builds, and suddenly you have a vig you can’t handle.

  Vince would feel bad for the old guy if Teddy wasn’t such a damn fool.

  So there was that side of Vince’s job. Slapping around the elderly. It wasn’t exactly noble, but the elderly should get loans from banks if they don’t want to get slapped around. Or, at the very least, they should make their payments on time when they borrow from unofficial moneylenders.

  Teddy couldn’t point the blame at anyone but himself.

  Sure, there were cons to the job, but there were also pros. Vince hadn’t always been like this. He’d spent most of his twenties in his bedroom back on U.S. soil, watching life crawl by with the ticking date at the top-right-hand of his computer screen. Turning thirty had brought revelations with it, and he’d decided the only way he wouldn’t die lonely and regretful was to get the hell out there and do something, even if that meant associating with undesirables.

  Once he connected action with results, no one could stop him. He’d wound up out here, making cash hand over fist, spending it just as fast. For those with loose morals and a penchant to spend, the Bahamas were like a less regulated Las Vegas. Your money went further, your thrills were cheaper and faster.

  Vince quickly realised he couldn’t make enough money out here.

  The more that came in, the more outlandishly he devised ways to get rid of it.

  So that’s how he’d wound up here.

  Doing things that made his skin crawl.

  His phone rang. A blocked number. No caller ID. But he knew the caller. He picked up. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Are you in position?’

  The voice was low, raspy, slightly distorted — the way it had always been.

  Vince said, ‘Yeah.’

  ‘He’ll be there in fifteen.’

  ‘I want to re-negotiate the fee.’

  A pause. ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘I make the demands here. Not you.’

  ‘I’m in position,’ Vince said. ‘I’m ready to go. You won’t find someone else to do this tonight, and if I don’t do it he’ll get spooked and go to ground. You need me.’

  ‘You’re making a big mistake.’

  ‘I’m only upping it by ten grand,’ Vince said. ‘I want an even fifty k for my troubles. Besides…’

  He trailed off.

  Battled down the guilt.

  ‘…he’s my friend,’ he finished.

  The voice said, ‘Fine. Fifty grand. But I don’t want to hear a sob story. If you cared about him that much you wouldn’t have taken the job.’

  ‘You didn’t leave me much of a choice.’

  ‘There’s always a choice.’

  Silence.

  The voice said, ‘Fifteen minutes.’

  The line died.

  Vince returned the phone to the drink holder in the centre console and tapped his shoe restlessly in the footwell. He realised he should have asked a dozen more questions — Where do you want the body? Do I leave it here? Do I make a statement? — but now it was too late. The cogs were turning, and the wheel was spinning.

  No going back.

  He figured his heart rate was one-forty when he spotted headlights in the rear view mirror, which only jacked it up further. Intrusive thoughts flashed through his mind. What if your palm is too sweaty to keep hold of the gun?

  He forced it all aside.

  The approaching hatchback pulled onto the shoulder behind Vince’s Crown Vic. The headlights died, plunging the road back into moody lowlight. By now it was almost fully dark, but yellow security lights in the construction aggregate lot spilled out past the gate, giving all objects mountainous shadows.

  Marlon got out of the hatchback. He smiled his trademark smile — big gums, narrow eyes, like a happy beaver — which didn’t exactly gel with his job description. But he got the job done all the same, maybe because he was so unassuming.

  ‘What, brother?’ Marlon said as Vince got out too. ‘What’s so important?’

  Vince needed to buy time to cross no-man’s-land. ‘You meet your quotas today?’

  ‘Don’t I always?’ Marlon said. ‘Ten thousand in vig, two thousand in principal.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Vince said. ‘Dylan will be happy.’

  Marlon grinned that innocent grin. ‘When’s Dylan ever not happy with me?’

  Maybe that’s why the kid was so appealing — Marlon was perhaps the only jovial person in this underworld. He was no kid, in his late twenties, but everyone thought of him as one. He rarely ever became violent, rarely ever resorted to shakedown strategies, just happily laid out the consequences of failing to pay. The debtors he chased always paid, mostly because they liked the loan shark doing the chasing.

  That was Marlon’s strategy: Why intimidate when you can get better results by being nice?

  Now, Vince shrugged.

  Marlon looked around. ‘So, my brother, what’s the big secret?’

  Quiet.

  Marlon swept a hand over the surrounding fields. ‘We’re way out here. Better be important.’

  ‘It is.’

  Vince knew if he kept stalling he’d end up crippled by nerves. Stagnation couldn’t happen. Not now.

  He took out his Ruger and shot Marlon in the face.

  The kid died with his mouth frozen in that contagious smile. It happened so fast
Marlon didn’t even have time to change his expression. He took his happy-go-lucky nature to the grave. His body fell backward, eyes wide, arms and legs splayed. He hit the sand harder than Vince thought possible. The kid’s bones rattled, his face contorted, his weight let out a thump.

  Vince almost broke a molar he was clenching his teeth so hard.

  He swore, turned, got back in the Crown Vic, and drove away.

  The next morning…

  Eric never got tired of people watching.

  Even in the stressful times, even when the job caught up to him, he could always find solace in gazing at strangers from afar.

  He was perfectly content sitting in his old Toyota hatchback in the parking lot of the church in Hawksbill, west of Freeport. This car was probably the most expensive thing he’d ever own — a wealthy couple from one of the affluent suburbs inland had laid it off for five grand, no questions asked, no paperwork or insurance included. That was fine by him. He knew his lot in life. Knew exactly what he had to do to get a couple of steps ahead, and he was determined to stay ahead for the rest of his life. Other men had grandiose visions, goals and ambitions for greater things. He didn’t kid himself. He wasn’t smart, or really all that tough, either. But he could collect payments from the junkies and degenerates who borrowed money from his superiors, and he could do it consistently.

  That much he could do.

  Now he phoned Vince. The boss would want a check-in. It was a common courtesy.

  When the man answered, he sounded rattled, like he was still half-drunk. ‘What you want?’

  Eric checked his watch. ‘It’s seven a.m., bro.’

  ‘I had a rough night.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You need a lil’ something?’

  Vince sighed. He knew all about Eric’s smack habit, and didn’t condone it, but every now and then the job stress got to him the same way it got to Eric and he took a hit on the down low. It wasn’t a problem, of course. Just to steady the nerves. ‘Yes, actually. I think I put a target on my back last night, Eric.’

  ‘What’d you do?’

  Vince ignored the question. ‘You collecting payments this morning?’

  ‘Waiting on three thousand right now.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Church parking lot. Hawksbill.’

  A long pause.

  ‘What’s up?’ Eric said. ‘You ain’t acting normal.’

  ‘Can you chase that payment another day? I think I need you here.’

  ‘Your house?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Vince said. ‘I can’t shake the feeling someone’s coming for me.’

  ‘What’d you do, Vince?’

  ‘Just come over. And bring a gun.’

  ‘I’m not packing.’

  ‘Then get one.’

  Eric said, ‘Alright. You’d better explain what’s going on.’

  ‘I will when you get here.’

  ‘Should I be worried?’

  ‘No,’ Vince said. ‘I should be.’

  He killed the line.

  The car was suddenly stifling. It was a hot morning, but Eric’s body heat sent the interior temp soaring. He wiped sweat off his brow. Tried to swallow but couldn’t. Anxiety made the glob stick in his throat.

  He needed air.

  He stepped out into a gorgeous Bahamian sunrise, perfect golds and oranges reflecting off the water past the church. During the volatile months dealing with the aftermath of Hurricane Dorian’s devastation, Eric — like most who lived on Grand Bahama — had found it hard to appreciate the natural beauty of the flattened island. But the sun still rose on the rubble, every day without fail, and soon enough order was established and people had time to stop and appreciate why they lived here in the first place. But the economic impact lingered — nearly four billion dollars in total damages across the entire archipelago — and that’s when Eric’s morality had wavered. The business he worked in … it thrived on desperate times. It caught momentum when thousands upon thousands of residents who didn’t have insurance couldn’t turn to the banks, so they turned to the sharks. He’d thought about getting out, but once you’re in you can’t get out. So he had to either prey on a vulnerable population or kill himself.

  He was weak, and he knew it, so he’d chosen the first option and masked his woes with the heroin. It never failed to blunt those receptors and take him downstream to fantasy land.

  He stretched his arms over his head, shook out a few kinks in his neck, then took a final deep breath.

  ‘Okay,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Gun. Smack. Vince’s place.’

  An easy to-do list, all things considered.

  He turned to get back in the car.

  Two tall men stood on the passenger side, looking over the roof, wide eyes boring into him. They wore tattered tees without sleeves, exposing long sinewy arms. Their faces were hollow, gaunt.

  Eric knew them.

  Zidane and LaQuan. Local Afro-Bahamian labourers. Rough men, independent contractors fighting to make a living each and every day through gruelling construction gigs, of which there were plenty these days. It was back-breaking work, though, so Eric didn’t blame them for earning a little on the side dealing to him.

  He smiled. ‘Speak of the devil. You’re just the two I was looking for.’

  They didn’t respond.

  A chill crept up his spine.

  He turned to the taller of the two and said, ‘Zidane?’

  Zidane said, ‘Ya?’

  ‘Why you standing there like that?’

  Zidane shook something off and smiled back. ‘Nothin’, Eric. Watchu want?’

  ‘Two hits if you’ve got it.’

  Zidane said, ‘Yeah, I got that.’

  He rounded the trunk to get to Eric’s side of the car, but none of it felt right. The way they’d appeared out of nowhere, their strange silence. They were sick criminals, for sure, but they’d always treated Eric well, never enlightened him as to what else they did on the side.

  Eric said, ‘You got a gun, too?’

  ‘Watchu need a gun for?’ Zidane said.

  He stepped right up to him, very close. He probably weighed less than Eric but his frame was larger, all long muscle, no fat.

  Eric said, ‘Business.’

  ‘Well, yar, I gotsa gun,’ Zidane said. ‘You ain’t havin’ it though.’

  ‘It’s an emergency. I’ll pay good coin.’

  Zidane pulled a knife. ‘Someone else paid us betta coin.’

  Eric only managed, ‘No,’ before Zidane spun him round like he weighed nothing and cut his throat from left to right.

  Arterial blood fountained and Eric watched it spray the pavement beneath him before he collapsed. He stayed lucid just long enough for the terror to strike him.

  Oh, no, he thought. I’m dead.

  Then he was.

  Zidane shoved his corpse back into the car, where blood kept spraying, coating the interior. The labourer reached into the back pocket of Eric’s jeans and pulled out a logbook.

  He held it up for LaQuan to see. ‘Jackpot, ey? We gon’ get paid.’

  His friend grinned from ear to ear.

  They manhandled Eric’s corpse across the rear seats. Zidane got behind the wheel and LaQuan took the passenger seat.

  They ignored the blood and drove the hatchback out of the lot.

  1

  Las Vegas

  Nevada

  A good old-fashioned stakeout.

  The perfect opportunity to discuss what their chaotic schedules hadn’t yet allowed them to.

  Jason King had the passenger seat, and Will Slater had the driver’s. The vehicle itself — a tiny Toyota Yaris hatchback coated in fake rust and grime — was a chameleon in the wreckers’ yard, skewered into the base of a towering pile. Its vantage point allowed them to overlook the unincorporated community of Arden without anyone being the wiser. The bitumen a few dozen feet in front of them was riddled with squad cars belonging to the Las Vegas Metrop
olitan Police Department. More importantly, the property across the street sported yellow police tape around its perimeter, a cordon erected in the aftermath of a bloody shootout one week prior. All bodies had been removed, but investigators were still combing through the warehouse for forensic evidence.

  It was an important crime scene.

  After all, unknown assailants had gunned down the ex-Clark County Sheriff, Keith Ray.

  The real question was what he’d been doing all the way out here, surrounded by the bodies of dishonourably discharged veterans with extensive rap sheets, in possession of laptops and files that implicated him in the facilitation of a sex trafficking empire.

  And who had massacred them all?

  None of the grimier details had hit the news cycle yet. King doubted they ever would — it would go unreported and unaddressed. The force didn’t have to be inherently evil to suppress implications of corruption. They might not have been involved, but it was their reputations on the line. That’s the whole reason deceit spreads like wildfire in the first place.

  See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.

  King recalled an old quote he’d read somewhere. He’d never forget it. He’d never read anything truer.

  The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.

  King said, ‘You think we left prints?’

  Slater said, ‘I was gloved. You were gloved. We’re good.’

  King chewed absent-mindedly on a stick of gum and sighed as he watched LVMPD officers mill out front. ‘I just wish we made it back here in time.’

  ‘Nothing we can do about it,’ Slater said. ‘They were lightning fast with the cordon. We were here at six a.m. the next morning, and the tape was already up.’

  ‘You think it’s normal they’ve had it on twenty-four hour guard since?’

  ‘Of course not. None of this is normal. The way they’re treating it, it should be front page of the Review Journal.’