|
Part One: Fender Bender
Todd raced back to his car, cursing the ATM
all the way. Why was there always a line? His job packing boxes
for a firm in Oakland wasn’t much, but he didn’t
want to lose it by being late again. They’d find a way
of firing him sooner or later anyway. Although a monkey could
do his job, they’d be better off hiring one. His workmanship,
even by his own admission, sucked. But this was his plight. When
it came to him and jobs, they never lasted. Okay, he lacked the
interest, but irrespective, he also lacked the skill set for
any job he undertook.
He hopped back into his car, glad not to see
a parking ticket glued to the windshield, and crunched it into
reverse. The Honda Accord was way overdue for an overhaul, although
an overhaul wouldn’t do much for its ancient transmission.
It was toast. Half the time, he didn’t know what gear he
was selecting. The Accord stuttered in the parking spot.
“Get in there, damn it.”
Gears snarled as Todd struggled to find a
forward gear. He jumped off the clutch and the car leapt backwards,
slamming into a Porsche Boxster’s headlight.
“Shit,” he muttered.
His antics had drawn quite a crowd and they’d
all witnessed his screw-up. Nowhere to run, he thought. He found
first gear without effort this time and eased the Accord forward
to assess the extent of the damage.
Everyone had an opinion and had no problem
telling him where he’d gone wrong and how much it was going
to cost him. He crouched in front of the Porsche and picked at
the broken headlight and buckled bumper. There was a couple hundred
dollars of damage to the average car, but on the German exotic,
he was looking at thousands. His car, the piece of shit that
it was, didn’t exhibit any signs of damage—just like
Todd, who didn’t exhibit any signs of insurance.
“Does anyone know who the owner is?” Todd
asked.
No one did.
“You’ll have to wait,” someone
suggested.
“I can’t. I’m late for work.”
“I don’t think you have much choice,” someone
else said.
“I can’t. I’ve been late
twice this week already.” Todd delved inside his car for
a scrap of paper and a pen. “I’ll leave a note.”
He wrote: People think I’m leaving you
my contact and insurance details. I’m not. Sorry.
Todd folded up his note, wrote sorry on the
outside and stuck it under the windshield wiper. He shrugged,
hopped inside the Accord and raced off.
He felt guilty for shafting the Porsche driver,
but at the same time, he was buzzing with the thrill of his lawlessness
and his speedometer showed it. He was accelerating past forty-five
on Telegraph. He took a deep breath and eased off the gas.
In the scheme of things, what he’d done
wasn’t so bad. It was an accident and it was more likely
the Porsche driver’s insurance could afford the repairs
than he could. Anyway, with a car like that, he thought, you’re
asking for trouble. Todd pulled into his employer’s parking
lot safe in the knowledge that the matter was over.
***
Todd liked to take Sunday mornings easy. He
lounged in bed until ten then took a walk to the newsstand to
pick up the Sunday paper. He wandered back through the apartment
complex, pulling out the color supplement and flicking through
the magazine, ignoring the front-page splash about some big drug
bust. He took a different route back to his apartment and passed
close to his assigned parking space. He slowed as he got close
to his car. At first, he’d thought his windows had steamed
up overnight, but the weather conditions hadn’t been right
for that. As he closed in, he realized he’d been way off.
Every one of the Accord’s windows had been smashed and
all four tires had been slashed. He ran a hand over the scarred
paintwork. A hook end of a crowbar protruded from the front windshield,
and a note was sticking out from under a wiper. He pulled it
out and read it. “Guess who?” it said.
Todd didn’t need to guess. He knew who
had done the damage. It was the Porsche owner. Todd hadn’t
forgotten about the fender bender, but it had been days since
it happened and he thought it was over, a stunt that would dissolve
in his memory over time. Well, he just found out his stunt was
insoluble.
He’d screwed up this time. Someone must
have taken down his license plate before he’d driven away.
He was going to pay big for this one. He tugged out the crowbar
and tossed it on the backseat through a glassless side window.
Returning to his apartment, a thought dogged
him. Someone may have reported him to the police or Porsche driver,
but how did the Porsche driver know where he lived? He opened
the door to his apartment.
“Mr. Todd Collins, I presume,” the
small man said, getting up from Todd’s couch.
Two linebacker types, one black, the other
Hispanic, flanked the small man. The small man seemed genial,
but the linebackers looked ready to tear Todd’s head off.
He could have bolted, but judging by the bulges under the three
men’s jackets, he didn’t expect to get far. He guessed
he was meeting the owner of the Porsche.
“I’m Todd Collins.” Todd
stepped inside the apartment and closed the door.
“Do you know who I am?” the small
man asked.
Todd went to say, “The Porsche owner,” but
decided against it. He thought it best not to antagonize the
situation any more than he had already. He shook his head, finding
that his vocal chords had failed him.
“Good. That makes things simpler. It’s
probably not a good idea that you do. It’s only important
that I know who you are. Understand?”
Todd nodded.
“I bet you’re wishing you’d
left your insurance details now, aren’t you?” the
small man said.
“I can make up for it. I can pay.”
The small man held up a hand and shook his
head. “It’s far too late for that.” He looked
Todd up and down. “Besides, I doubt you could afford to
pay. The damage is incidental, but the consequences of your misdemeanor
have been severe. Put the newspaper down.”
Todd, confused at first, hesitated before
doing as instructed. He placed the newspaper on the chipped coffee
table. The small man separated the newspaper from the supplements
and opened it out. He tapped the front page with the back of
his hand.
“See what you’ve done.”
Todd glanced at the headline: DRUG DEALER
BUSTED DURING ROUTINE TRAFFIC STOP.
“The car you hit belongs to an employee
of mine. Driving home the other night, he was pulled over for
a busted headlight. The cops discovered two kilos of cocaine
in his possession. He’s in a lot of trouble and I’m
minus an employee, not to mention a lot of money. Do you see
now? Do you see what you’ve done and why it has led us
to your door?”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s not important.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to know.
But I’ve lost a valuable employee who had a job to do.
Now he can’t do it. This is where you come in.” The
small man stabbed a finger in Todd’s direction.
Todd’s stomach twitched. He didn’t
like what was coming. He knew it was retribution for what he’d
done, but it wasn’t the kind he wanted. Points on his license
and a fine he could accept. He’d even take a beating. But
the small man’s kind of retribution filled Todd with dread.
“Me?” Todd stammered.
“Yes. You’ll have to fill in.”
The linebackers wrinkled their noses. They
knew Todd wasn’t the right man for the job and he agreed
with them.
“What do you want me to do?”
The small man beamed. “That’s
the attitude. These two said I was making a mistake.”
The linebackers frowned.
The small man dug in his pocket and threw
a set of keys to Todd. Todd caught them and examined them.
“Those fit a black Jag. You’ll
find it outside Danko’s restaurant in the city. Bring it
to me in Oakland.”
“When?”
“Oh, I like you. I debated about just
beating the crap out of you, but I wanted to give you a chance
to make up for your error and you’ve done that. You’ve
assessed the situation and decided to stand by your mistake.
I admire that.” The small man stood and dropped a note
on Todd’s newspaper. “Bring the Jag to me tonight.
Addresses are on the paper. See you at midnight.”
The black linebacker brushed Todd aside to
open the door. It was a petty gesture, but Todd wasn’t
going to tell him that.
Todd grabbed the small man’s arm on
his way out. The small man stared at Todd, his look piercing.
Todd knew enough not to touch him, but he didn’t care.
He knew what was being asked of him was illegal. He just needed
to know how illegal.
“Will I find drugs in that car?” Todd
demanded.
The linebackers stiffened. The small man nodded
at his arm. Todd released his grasp.
“Unfortunately, you don’t have
a choice, Todd,” the small man said, his tone barbed. “Be
at the Oakland address at midnight.”
< BACK
TO THE WORKING STIFFS PAGE
|
