One In A Billion (34 page)

'I don't know about this, sounds fucked up to me', he says, shaking his head. 'What if he's a cop?'

'He doesn't look like a cop does he?' Carlos says, trying to reason with him.

The man they are talking about sits in earshot of their conversation, but hasn't responded. He isn't even looking at them, waiting instead for them to make their decision, so he can go about his day's work in the calm easy way he does everything else. He'll do it anyway, even if they pussy out on him. His open-shirted, laid back cockiness has already put Alex ill at ease, as though it's a pre-requisite to be scatty and tense, in order to get the job done to his satisfaction. Carlos is right though, he doesn't look like a cop, because he isn't one. He's well built, muscular and almost too young to have the experience he says he has, but this isn't any ordinary man. This man, in crocodile boots, with a rolled up cigarette permanently attached to his lips and a limited edition, engraved, glock pistol tucked into the back of his jeans, is River Woods, and River Woods is always, at any given moment, the coolest man in the room.

'What the fuck do I know?' Alex says, exasperated. He looks around at the other men, hoping to find an answer to his problem. Carlos sips coffee just the wrong side of warm, patiently waiting for Alex to calm down.

'I'm not a cop', River says, and even his voice makes him sound like a movie star. This man just exudes sexiness as though it were a natural bodily function.

'That's exactly what a cop would say', Alex says, looking old and tired. 'What are you saying Peters?'

Jack Peters is the fourth man in the room. A burly ex-bouncer with a nose that's been broken so many times in the past it looks like it's been put on upside down. He has his hands in his pocket - a habit from so many nights standing out in the cold - and shrugs his shoulders without removing them.

'If Buck reckons he's legit, then that's good enough for me', Peters says.

'How the fuck do we know what Buck thinks if we can't get hold of him? I turn up, and this kid's sat here waiting for me, and he tells me Buck can't make it and he's sent him instead. All we've got is his word. I don't feel good about this', Alex says.

'You can trust me', River says. 'And I'm not a kid, don't call me that again.'

The menace in his voice sends a shiver up Alex's spine. River lights a match with a thumb-nail, and re-ignites his cigarette. A hundred people could have tried the same thing, and not a single one would have made it look quite so effortless. He blows a smoke ring out into the room that Alex wafts away.

'No one's ever heard of you', Alex says. 'How do we know you've done the things you say you've done? All that could be bullshit. River Woods, you sound like a fucking national geographic documentary.'

River takes a pull on his cigarette, while Alex stares at him intensely, waiting for an answer. When he doesn't give it, Alex looks around at his fellow men, hoping for some solidarity. Nobody seems that interested in giving it. River breathes out a cloud of smoke.

'Can you do the job with three?' he says.

'No', Carlos says, before Alex has a chance to answer. He's losing his patience, and he knows they haven't got time to fuck around.

'Well then', River says, 'I guess you'll just have to trust me.'

'This is bullshit', Alex says. 'You want to get burnt, go for it.'

'There's a lot of money in that bank', River says, 'I can't carry it all.'

'I'm not getting burnt because of a piss-ant rookie. The job is off, whether you're a cop or you aint, I'm not stupid enough to go into something with someone I know nothing about. I've worked with Carlos, Buck and Peters here for years, and that's why we're all still available and not locked up in some mucky jail cell, or six foot under the fucking-.'

At that moment, a large white globule of pigeon shit explodes against the side of Alex's shiny bald head, dripping across her ear and ending up on the shoulder of his worn Adidas T-shirt. It's so big, it looks like it's come from an albatross.

'Son of a fucking-', Alex says, as he realises what it is. Before he has time to finish his sentence, River is up, the limited edition, engraved glock pistol in his hand, and before anyone has a chance to fully understand what's going on, a bullet has already disengaged from the chamber, and a deafening sound now ricochets around the dilapidated ex-hat factory, as the bullet finds it's target and disappears quickly through the corrugated iron roof. A moment later, a dead pigeon, with a clean hole through its chest, falls to the ground in front of Alex's feet with a sickening thud. Alex bends down and stares through the hole in its chest, completely in disbelief, while River coolly puts the gun back into the belt of his jeans.

'Fucking hell', Carlos says. 'That was fast.'

Alex kicks the dead bird angrily into a pile of debris. He straightens back up, snarls at River and begins to clean the compacted shit off his T-shirt with an empty chocolate bar wrapper he finds in his jeans pocket.

Chapter 3

Maddy sits at a large desk in an otherwise empty office. Behind her, a floor to ceiling window looks out onto the chaotic, over-populated city of Albuquerque, street level of which is six stories below. It is a city Maddy has grown up in and absolutely hates. In her hand, while she concentrates hard on the accounts document she has brought up on her screen, she works a stress ball squeezer that has been so worn away from use, the compacted foam from the inside is almost leaking out, and the once well rendered imprint of a piggy bank is now no more than an outline.

Maddy checks and rechecks the document, and then checks the company's online bank account statement. She snarls, bites down hard on the stress ball squeezer to dampen the sound, and then screams loudly, so loudly in fact that everyone outside the office, and half of the people on the floor below can still hear her. Maddy of course doesn't know this, she hasn't known this since she began screaming at work, several years ago. When she feels like she has screamed enough, and she's ready to tackle the problem head on, she snaps a pencil dramatically in half, opens the bottom drawer of her desk and adds the two broken halves to several more already inside.

She composes herself, picks up the phone, thinks for a moment, puts it back down, and then leaves her office. Several people watch her, knowing full well what's coming, and hoping that it won't be directed at them. They all think she's absolutely crazy, every single one of them. She's earnt the nick-names 'Cruella De Vil' and 'The Woman in Black', and she hasn't done anything to avoid them.

She makes her way to the accounts department, a section of five people on the floor below her. Once there, she stands at the edge of their desk and addresses them as a group.

'The deposits weren't made on Friday', she says calmly, like the first innocuous gust of wind that carries a storm behind it. 'Who is responsible?'

They all look at each other. Nobody wants to take the blame. Maddy waits impatiently for the answer.

'Jessie was supposed to do it', Carl says eventually. He'd betray his own mother for a chance at freedom.

'That's bullshit Carl', Jessie responds, defending herself.

'It doesn't matter anyway, we can do them today', Ian says, trying to be diplomatic. Maddy eyeballs him. 'I'll take them down there later. This morning. Now if you like.'

'They are supposed to be done every Friday afternoon before the store closes', Maddy says, on the verge of losing her patience yet again. Seeing this, Javier reaches out for his pencil, and makes sure it's firmly in his grasp, in case Maddy feels like snapping it.

Of the one hundred and thirty six people that work for the stationery company that Maddy's grandfather began sixty five years ago, and which Maddy, because of her parents insistence, is now in control of, almost half know about her secret drawer with broken pencils. Almost half again actually think she might be a witch. Being the superstitious man he is, Javier doesn't want to risk it.

Jane isn't so cautious, and despite the responsibility not entirely falling with her, she decides to speak up.

'It was my fault', Jane begins. She looks down at the desk and then up at Maddy, using the one technique she remembers from her six month, part-time acting course, to make her eyes well up and appear convincing.

The rest of the accounts team, along with the whole of the rest of the floor now, watch this confession in a state of disbelief. Javier quickly puts his favourite pencil, along with all of the rest of his stationery, into the top drawer of his desk, and locks it. Jane, the newest member of the team, having been there for only three weeks, was, in conjunction with Jessie, meant to deposit the weeks takings at the bank on Friday afternoon. Instead, the two girls got chatting about which men from the office or the shop floor they would either kiss, marry or push of a cliff, and the time got away from them. After that, it was simply too late to deposit the cash, something they were planning to rectify later that morning. Despite Ian's earlier warning to her about avoiding taking responsibility at all costs, Jane has decided not to heed it. With their hearts sinking, and their heads in their hands, as though watching a convicted but innocent woman walk voluntarily to the electric chair, they watch Jane commit career suicide.

'It was my turn to do it, and I forgot. I'm sorry Maddy, it won't happen again', Jane says.

'Fuck', someone on the other side of the room shouts, before moving their hands to their mouth too late to stop it.

'My name is not Maddy', Maddy says through clenched teeth, with a calmness that troubles everyone in the room who has experienced her wrath. She reaches into her pocket for her stress ball, but quickly realises she's left it on her office desk. She makes do with balling her hands into fists in her pockets as she seethes at the girl in front of her who could have been a contemporary of hers, or even a friend, in a completely different world.

'I'll do it now, don't worry Miss Parker. Jane's only been here for a couple of weeks. Really it's my responsibility', Ian says, hoping to placate her. 'No damage.'

'Where is it?' Maddy says, losing her patience with the incompetence of her staff members.

They all look at each other. Jane looks at Ian. Ian looks at Jessie. Javier looks at the floor. No-one looks at Maddy.

'Where is it!?' Maddy says again, this time loud enough for almost the whole building to hear.

Jane opens her drawer and without looking at her, hands Maddy a big cash bag, full to the brim with money. There must be almost a hundred thousand dollars stuffed inside. You could hear a pin drop in the office, until Maddy says,

'You have got to be fucking kidding me.'

Across town, a battered Ford Transit van carves through the traffic. Inside, Carlos grips the steering wheel tightly, focussing himself on the task ahead. River has the front seat alongside him, with his feet up on the dash, and trademark cigarette hanging from his lips. Alex has been relegated to the rear of the vehicle, and crouches there on the wheel arch opposite Peters, whose bulk makes it difficult for him to ride comfortably with the chairs taken out.

'Slow the fuck down Carlos', Alex says, as he struggles to hold on, the road surface and the age of the vehicle knocking him about like a pebble in a tin can.