Twin Cities Noir полностью

“Hey!” I say, as if it’s gonna stop him. I take a swing at him but he’s already on his feet, my keys sparkling in his hand. “Motherfucker,” I yell, “get back here!” But he keeps on going, running toward my Lincoln, Tattoo following.

I immediately stand up, and my head spins. Fucker hit me harder than I thought. I stumble and grab the wall as the bums start my Lincoln and peel out of the space, spitting gravel everywhere. Goddamnit, I just had that thing painted and they’re gonna scratch it all up. As they spin past me and I watch helplessly, I see Tattoo smile slyly behind the passenger window and wave my gun, taunting me. “SHIT!” I yell. What am I gonna do?

When from around the corner, I hear, “Davy? Are you all right?” I look over to see Curtis, one of the regulars at the Gopher. He’s a small-time hood and a real likeable guy. He’s always nice to visit with on my little lunch breaks. I guess I overlooked him in there today, but I’m happy to see him now.

“Curtis,” I say, “thank God! You gotta help me! These two assholes just did a job on me and took my car.”

“Let’s go,” Curtis says, and from behind him appears a heavyset guy I haven’t seen before. He doesn’t say anything but he moves with us in the direction of Curtis’s car, so I figure he’s with him.

I jump in the front seat, Heavy in the back, as Curtis starts the ignition. “I saw them go toward Jackson Street,” he says. “They’re probably heading up to the interstate. We can catch ’em.” He leaves the gravel driveway and squeals the tires onto 7th.

“Oh man, am I glad you came along when you did, Curtis. I’m dead meat if I don’t get that car back.”

“How much is in there today?” Curtis asks, jerking the wheel to pull around a slow-moving milk truck.

“Over seventy thousand,” I answer. “I gotta get that money or Benno will kill me.”

“I wouldn’t worry about Benno,” Curtis says. “We’ll take care of this.”

We reach the interchange at 35E and Curtis automatically takes the northbound onramp.

“Are you sure they headed north?” I ask. “Maybe they kept going east up to 94.”

“No,” Curtis shakes his head, “they went this way. I saw them take this right.”

Thank God he can see what’s going on. My head is still ringing from the thumping Tattoo gave me. We scream up 35E and nearly reach the 694 interchange when we spot my Continental cruising north, just like Curtis said.

“There,” I say. “Hang back a little. Let’s follow them to where they’re going. I’m gonna fuck these guys up when we get there.” I reach for my gun and remember I don’t have it anymore. “Shit, they got my gun.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Curtis says reassuringly, “I got one with your name on it.” Heavy doesn’t say anything from the backseat, so I assume he’s just enjoying the ride, but I hope he’s ready to rumble when we get where we’re going, because I’m not just gonna get that money back, I’m gonna take a surcharge out of their hides.

We follow these clowns—who don’t seem to be in any big hurry—clear up past Forest Lake, where they finally pull off the interstate and head east to Lindström. Once through that dinky town, they go north on a narrow highway.

“They gotta know by now that we’re following them,” I say to Curtis, who is driving casually along now, unconcerned about tipping them off.

“Yeah,” he says, “but they’re not worried.”

“You think they’re planning to shoot it out?” I ask.

“Don’t know,” Curtis replies, as he turns off the narrow highway onto an even narrower gravel road, “hard to say what people will do to get their hands on that much money.”

That much money. I suddenly realize how odd it was that he asked me in the parking lot how much was in the car today—in all the months I’ve been stopping at the Gopher, I never mentioned what my day job is—and how I didn’t see him inside the bar but he appeared as soon as those jerks took my car. Now here I sit in the passenger seat, with this guy driving who I really don’t know that well, and Heavy in the seat behind me who I’ve never seen before, and I start to wonder. And my wonder turns to worry. I look at Curtis as he pulls the car off the gravel road into a tree-obscured lane with two wheel ruts, and I say, “No, no way.”

Suddenly, from behind, Heavy clasps my shoulder with his meaty hand and presses the cold barrel of his pistol against the base of my skull. I get the message—don’t move—and I don’t. I just sit there and say the Lord’s Prayer in my mind.

We come to a stop in a leaf-canopied clearing where a broken-down old cabin stands, roof covered with moss, and there next to my beautiful baby-blue Lincoln Continental stand Dude #1 and Tattoo. Son of a bitch, am I a schmuck! Tattoo steps up to the passenger side and opens the door, covering me with my own gun, and I hear the key alarm bong as Curtis and Heavy get out of the car. I stand up and shake my head.

“You ain’t gonna get away with this,” I say, as Heavy pushes me toward the back side of the cabin.