Burn, p.26
Burn, page 26
part #1 of Vancouver Series
“Yeah, I remember. You said you smashed it on purpose. So what’s the problem?”
“Well, we’re celebrating, aren’t we? I told you, there are twelve people coming over.”
“And now you’ve got only eleven plates because Mazzi Hegan’s was broken in some sort of accident?”
“Exactly.”
“And there're no new sets of this type anywhere in the world, and you need me to track some down?”
“Correct.”
“And that’s an emergency?”
“Absolutely! What the hell am I going to do?”
Chendrill closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, but stopped just before the pain in his ribs became too much. “Why don’t you use another plate?” he asked.
Sebastian stayed silent for a moment, then spat back, “I don’t pay you a grand a day plus expenses to state the obvious.”
“I thought I was just supposed to be keeping Dan out of trouble.”
“Don’t go there.”
“Why the anger? I thought you were supposed to be celebrating?”
“I am, that’s why I’m so anxious. You took all day to call me back, and I’ve got a dinner party.”
Four hours later, it was one in the morning, and he had barely slept. Chendrill sat up and took another hit of the painkillers the doctor had given him, then lay back and tried to get comfortable. The thought of Daltrey—and even that kid he'd never met—getting burned by that monster was haunting his mind. Call the cops, he told himself. Do the right thing. Tell them this is the guy, and this is what he looks like, and call it a day. And tell them to get Jimmy the dickhead concierge at the Grand to spill the beans and be done with it.
But what if they fucked it up and someone else got burned in the process? What if they went in guns blazing like they do, and the wrong guy got hurt? There was a reason Daltrey operated alone, and Ditcon was not the only reason.
He closed his eyes again and thought of Tricia and wondered if the baker had come over again to cause trouble. And Dan? What if he was out there somewhere doing the limbo and making headlines again? Fuck, he thought, it was no good lying here like this, barely able to move from one side to the other. He remembered Muhammed Ali talking about his ribs after taking a pounding from Joe Frazier back in the glory days of boxing, before it became eclipsed by tough muscle guys locked together like limpets on the floor of an octagon cage.
******
At four in the morning, Chendrill was awake again. He lay for a while in the darkness of his room, thinking and listening to the night, then got up, took a shower, had a cup of tea, and got dressed. Half an hour later, he was sitting back outside the Grand.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Mazzi Hegan couldn’t sleep, either, and lay in his bed looking at the ceiling and the masterpiece he’d had painted there after being inspired by a trip to the Sistine Chapel a few years back. He was excited, and his excitement had nothing to do with anything that lay seven feet above him. He was excited because his photos were not only going national, but international. They would be displayed at bus stops, on trains, on billboards all over the world. They would be seen in London, Paris, Rome, Rio, New York, Sydney, Tokyo, and more, and it was all starting here in Vancouver this morning. Oh my God, he could not keep the excitement in check. He had to go full blast into the day—have himself a shower with all the jets on, dress in something super stylish and satiny, and get himself down to the Grand.
The sun was just breaking as Mazzi Hegan stepped out into the cool morning air and listened to the dawn’s chorus of birds. The Grand was the place to be on a day like this, having an early morning tea like the British and a patisserie or two, so fresh from the oven they melted in your mouth, their delicious filling oozing out as you bit down. What could be better?
He walked the next two blocks and crossed the road and then continued along the waterfront, listening to the water splashing up against the side of the seawall. He passed the small float planes getting ready for their first runs out to the islands, then went up the small hill to the Grand. Glancing briefly at a Ferrari that looked just like his, he stepped through magnificent doors built for a king to take a seat in the Grand’s restaurant.
I’ll spend some time here, get nice and comfy in one of the big leather chairs, and when I get out, the billboard should be up, he thought. He couldn’t believe his work would be up there on the hoarding across the road, a board purposely designed and perfectly positioned by Sebastian himself to capture the minds, hearts, and wallets of every hungry-to-spend tourist that came to the conference centers or walked out along the gangplanks of the world’s top cruise liners to admire this magnificent city. Today was going to be one of the greatest in his life and career so far.
Then he saw Chendrill standing at the concierge desk, holding the concierge’s hand and whispering in the guy’s ear.
“I knew it!” Mazzi said out loud, putting his tea down and staring at Chendrill, who was still holding the guy’s hand tenderly and smiling. “Busted! Outed!” he said as he stood and walked over slowly, slipping in closer to try to see what was going on and maybe get an idea of what was being said. He stood close behind Chendrill’s back, and looking over his shoulder, he saw the concierge’s fingers twisted back almost to the breaking point.
“Tell me, or I’ll be taking you out back, beating you, then bringing you around the front and showing you to the doormen,” Chendrill whispered.
My God, Mazzi thought, as he backed off slowly and went back to his chair to watch from a distance. Chendrill let go of the concierge’s hand long enough for him to write something on a piece of hotel paper. The concierge nodded cautiously as the two exchanged words and looked around to see if anyone in the hotel had seen the exchange.
Then Chendrill turned and walked straight over to Mazzi. Uninvited, he sat down next to him.
“Morning, Mazzi,” he said.
Mazzi Hegan nodded. He wanted to say something about his car, but after seeing what Chendrill had just done to the concierge’s fingers, he thought better of it. There was something different about the guy now. He wasn’t the soft, blow-dried, big-moustached teddy bear with an edge he was used to. His face appeared to be burned, and he was obviously in pain, but trying not to show it.
“What brings you here so early?” Chendrill asked.
Mazzi took a deep breath and decided to ignore what he’d just witnessed at the concierge desk. He smiled. Nothing—not even this guy who’d stolen his car and just broken the concierge’s fingers—was going to ruin this day. Taking another deep breath, and barely able to contain his excitement, he said, “Very soon, the electronic billboard outside is going to display my work for the whole world to see, and when it turns on, I want to be the first to see it.”
Chendrill nodded and smiled. “Really?”
Mazzi’s eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. “Yes, really! I’m so excited!” Then Mazzi looked at his brand new Rolex and said, “Oh my God, it’s almost six already. Let's go look together!”
And as the doorman opened the huge doors to the Grand, they both stepped outside and looked up to the billboard. There, above the city, was Dan with a broken nose in all his glory, naked save for Mazzi Hegan’s shining silver underpants.
Mazzi couldn’t believe it. It looked better than he’d ever imagined. He jumped up and down and clapped his hands with glee. He stared at it, taking it all in. It was the first time anything he’d done was going global. He never wanted to lose this feeling.
“Oh my God, oh my God! It’s going to be a wonderful day!” Mazzi said.
And he wasn’t wrong, for as he turned to look at Chendrill, all he saw was the man passing by him in the Ferrari, on his way to see Illya, holding the Russian pimp’s new address that the concierge had just given him.
It was late for Jimmy and early for Chendrill when he’d arrived at the Grand. At first, the concierge had been cocky and threatened to have Chendrill thrown out.
“Why don’t you fuck off out of here,” said Jimmy, “before I call the security guard over and have him throw you out and make you look stupid.”
Then Chendrill had seen Mazzi come in and wondered what the fuck he was he doing there. He’d grabbed the guy’s fingers and whispered in his ear that the Russian fuck he’d been dealing with had been killing people.
There was a guy going there soon, the concierge had told him as he felt his fingers on the verge of breaking. Another Asian businessman, the type that always seemed happy when they were sent the Russian’s way and seemed to tip well on top.
******
Chendrill waited for the hardware store to open, then drove back through town, pulling the Ferrari up on the other side of the park from Illya’s swanky pad. He looked up at the building. Judging from the address—suite 408—the place had to be on the far right corner of the fourth floor. Either that or the apartment before it. Looking to his right, he saw another huge billboard of Dan, smiling and full of insolence. The idiot looked like he had something to say but couldn’t be bothered, when in reality Chendrill knew all Dan wanted to do was sit in his room, jerk off, and eat.
He looked back at the building. It was only a block or two from where he and Illya had had their fight the day before. The sneaky bastard had pulled his flame gag on him and got the upper hand, then gone around the corner to his place and had a lay down. The guy that Jimmy the concierge had sent over must be up there now, he thought, up there fucking some whore the Russian had teamed up with since his sister could no longer perform.
Chendrill sat and stared at the building and took a deep breath. His ribs still hurt, but the painkillers were working, thank God, taking the edge off at least. Soon, though, he knew they’d be hurting again real bad. There was no doubt about that.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Illya had been surprised to get a call so early in the morning. When Alla had been at her prime and working with him, he got calls almost twenty-four seven. No doubt things were starting to pick up now. The girl, Luscious Mary or whatever she called herself, was doing well and trying her hardest to work her way out the door. He thought that soon he’d have to give her the option of staying or cut her loose once he’d secured a replacement from Moscow.
The Asian guy had come around and, as usual, had not made eye contact. He’d handed over the five hundred dollars in cash and gone into the room. The girl, though, was really starting to smell, and her hair was getting greasier.
Who the fuck was that fag prick yesterday? he wondered. He had been thinking about it for most of the night. It sounded like he might be the private detective, the guy Jimmy with the attitude from the hotel had called him about. What would a private eye want him for? Maybe it was because of this new whore, he thought. Could be a few things, though, when he thought it through. Who the fuck knows? he thought, and walked back into the huge living room. He looked outside across the park. If that guy showed up again, like he’d decided yesterday, he’d just kill him this time and be done with it, that was certain.
Then he saw him standing on the other side of the park, looking back at him, calling to him, saying to him, “You want it…you know I got it.”
Fuck, the guy was hot. Fuck, he was so hot. Jesus, his stomach was so tight. There was sweat on his chest, and his nose was obviously broken, but he still looked good. Sexy, sexy, sexy like he’d never seen before.
Illya stood and stared at the billboard as Dan looked right back at him, full of attitude. He could feel himself getting harder inside his tracksuit pants. He continued to stare into Dan’s eyes as the inside of his pants tightened. This guy out there staring at him, wanting him. He said out loud, “Yeah you, guy, you want it. Yeah, you want it, don’t you?”
Putting his hand down his pants, he began to touch himself, rubbing his cock and staring at the guy’s dick in those tight silver underpants, just like the ones he’d just bought.
Illya looked toward the corridor and listened for Mary and the Asian guy. They’d be another hour, guaranteed. Slowly, Illya began to strip off his jacket and then his T-shirt. Next, he dropped his track pants around his ankles to the floor and stood there naked in exactly the same underpants this guy out there who wanted him so bad was wearing.
“You want me, don’t you?” Illya said quietly as he spat saliva down and stroked it into his cock, getting himself harder and harder. He’d meet the guy in the street down there or across the road in the park and he’d say, “Hi guy, my name’s Illya. What’s yours?”
Then the guy would say to him, “You’re really hot. I like your track pants. Are you an athlete?”
Illya would tell him he’s an actor in a TV series, then invite him up. They’d stand there in the middle of the room, and he’d tell the guy to strip. Then he’d grab him by the hair and pull his face toward him and kiss him hard just like the older guys had made him do when he first went to prison. He’d drag the guy’s head down to his waist and pull his cock out and ram it hard into his mouth, and the guy would love it and stare up at him, wanting him to—
Then Illya turned around. The Asian man was standing on the other side of the room staring at him, holding a huge-bladed knife in his hand.
“I killed your friend Sergei, the flashy blond guy with the fancy shoes,” Padam Bahadur said quietly in perfect English. “I burned him to death out on the creek, and then afterward, I went up to your apartment, and I hit your sister so hard I felt her spine break beneath my fist. And now I’m here, and I’m going to kill you.”
Illya stood there, still holding his dick, staring at the little man with his huge knife and unable to comprehend what he’d just heard. He saw a can of compressed oil and a lighter sitting close to him on the cabinet, and very slowly, shuffling his feet with his track pants around his ankles, he moved toward it, saying in his best English as he went, “Get the fuck out of here, you little slant-eyed cunt.”
Then Padam Bahadur moved toward him fast, raising the huge blade as the fire erupted from Illya’s right hand and shot out toward the man as he came. Illya moved again, back to the side, holding the flame out at the guy. He quickly leaned down, grabbing another canister from the tracksuit pants around his ankles, then with both hands blasting flame, he shuffled toward the man with full force.
Padam Bahadur retreated across the living room as the flame from the canisters sent out scorching heat, pinning him against the wall. He ducked and dove to one side as Illya moved in on him. Then he threw himself down to the floor, disappearing behind the leather sofa.
Illya kept the flame going, moving forward and looking to his side for the accelerants in the left-hand pocket of his track bottoms, which had slipped away from his feet and were now on the floor.
Fuck, he thought, wishing he’d kept his clothes on instead of stripping them off like he had, leaving himself naked and vulnerable. If he hadn’t been naked, he would have hit this Asian prick with some fuel by now, and that would have been the end of him in a matter of about a minute.
Backing off, he moved quickly to his pants and bent over. He dropped one of the cans, and reaching down into the pocket, he fumbled for the glass vials. Suddenly, the man came at him again, this time even faster, like lightning, spinning himself through the one flame Illya still held at him. Illya moved to the side and grabbed the fallen can again with his left hand. He ignited it with the flame in his right, but as quickly as it was lit, the flame in his left hand went out as he felt warm liquid running down his legs. Then, looking to the floor, he saw someone’s hand there, holding the canister.
The man backed away, nursing his face, keeping away from the flame Illya kept pouring out from his right hand. Then the man came at him again, spinning and twisting through Illya’s now solitary flame. Then as quickly as the last time, the flame disappeared as another hand hit the floor and Illya felt a searing pain rush through his abdomen.
Illya stood there and looked at his hands below him on the floor. Blood poured from both of his wrists, and he realized that the water he’d felt on his legs was his own life force pouring from his now open stomach. He tried to close the wound but couldn’t with his hands no longer connected to his body. His intestines fell out of his abdomen and hung over his tattooed skin. As he looked down at it all in disbelief, the man’s shadow approached again, and then his head began to spin, going around and around until it fell to the floor and stopped, and he saw his tattooed, blood-covered torso crumple before him as everything went black.
******
Padam Bahadur stood over Illya’s body with the Gurkha knife in his hand, quietly paying his respects to the man he’d just killed. He could feel the burns about his face and had been surprised at the tattooed man’s speed and cunning. Why he was wearing such a ridiculous pair of underpants, however, was something he would for the rest of his life have difficulty understanding. The glass vials of accelerant lay out in the open next to the man’s track pants. If he’d reached them as he’d wanted and hit him with the fuel, he knew his days would have been over.
Walking away, he headed to the kitchen and turned on the taps at the sink. He washed the blood from the ceremonial blade that had been in his family for just over a century. Cupping his hands, he bathed his burned face in the cold, soothing water before tearing off a couple of sheets of paper towel and cleaning the blood and char from the fire off the knife. He walked back into the living room and placed it at the Russian’s feet.
It was not the first time Padam Bahadur had killed with a Kuri knife, and it would not be his last. His brother's Gurkha blade was as sharp and as strong now as it had been the day it had been forged at the rear of a craftsman’s home at the edge of his village in Nepal. It was a blade that had served him well and given the Russian man an honorable death. The Russian’s friend and his sister’s boyfriend Sergei had died by flame as he had deserved, while the Russian’s sister watched as she lay in agony with her spinal cord severed.
