The Low Road (9 page)

Josef had to stoop to see her face. Green eyes, a tiny glob of mascara on her eyelashes. It was early to be cooking, he thought. A roast perhaps, with vegetables and wine and the good cutlery. A family lunch, the clatter of plates. He froze with his foot between the door and the jamb.

We don't want your type around here, the woman went on in a quiet voice, obviously ensuring no one else in the apartment heard. You caused enough trouble here, lending money to a man like my dad, who only pisses it away at the track. Vultures.

Josef wondered if she would really shoot him. His own gun was half raised, not quite ready. He was too old to be shot and doubted he could squeeze off a shot before she fired. He could feel his blood running close to the surface, just beneath his skin. The tattoo at his wrist felt as though it were attempting to wriggle free. Despite his predicament, he was relieved to know an injury was the reason for Lee's absence, rather than his own poor judgement.

What about the money? Just give me the money. That was a loan. Not a gift. It won't go away. What he does with it is none of my business.

The woman shook her head and kicked at Josef's foot to dislodge it from the doorway. You're not listening. We gave the money back. With your little friend. Dropped him off somewhere with it.

What? Where?

On the outskirts. Some place my dad knew. Sylvia's. And she smiled, displaying two rows of neat and perfect teeth. Rolled him out the car with a suitcase of cash.

Why the hell would you do that?

Look. Stay away from us. You got what you want, now leave us alone. Leave us alone. You got what you need.

You dumped him with the money?

Yes.

Then another voice and the shape of a man emerged from the shadows of the hallway behind the woman. What's going on, is that Carlo at last?

Go back inside, Dad, the woman said, not taking her eyes off Josef.

Oh no, Stella said, pressing his palms to his cheeks.

Go back inside. This man was
just leaving.
I'm sorting this out.

Stella swore in some foreign language and threw his hands up like an old woman. Fucking Jew. There was a high-pitched squeal from the depths of the apartment and a toddler ran into the entrance hall. Stella cut it off and hoisted it into his arms.

A light came on. Then the silhouette of an older woman stepped into the hallway and enquired after the child. She favoured one leg as she walked. A flash flood of domesticity. Curious glances, whispers. Who's at the door?

Josef was unsure where to look. I should take my chances, he thought. Just shoot this blonde bitch. Get off a shot and run. For being smart. Shoot her in the face. Although he was looking past her, he knew her eyes were on him.

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. You'll never get away with it if you shoot me here, she said in a whisper.

And as if on cue, there came the sounds of a group of people entering the apartment block and mounting the stairs. There was the rustle of shopping bags and laughter.

Josef paused for long enough to let this bitch know that he could still do it just for the hell of it, that she was lucky, that he might come back for her later. He lowered his gun and removed his foot. The woman winked at him and slammed the door. He heard the sharp scrabble of the chain slotting across. In a futile gesture, he kicked at the door before spinning on his heel and stalking down the stairs into the windy street.

Outside, he walked quickly, smoking furiously. Crisp, brown autumn leaves eddied in the air and crunched beneath his feet like the skeletons of birds. Standing in a phone box, he located Sylvia's phone number in his notebook and dialled. At least she would be able to help him. If that blonde was telling the truth, Lee would be there. The money would be there.

But there was nothing. Just the dull tone of a broken line. His coins were not refunded. He threw his cigarette onto the floor and crushed it beneath his heel. The phone box stank of stale piss and wintry metal. He redialled, with the same result. Nothing. Nothing was working. Nothing was fucking working. And that fucking woman, winking.
Winking
at him.

With the phone in one hand, he braced himself and smashed the black plastic receiver repeatedly into the bulk of the mounted phone, against the cradle and circle of numbers that made a useless
ching
under each blow—against the rounded corners and metal phone-book rack until all that was left was a mess of wires and shards of plastic in his fist. A couple hurrying past, hunched against the cold, averted their eyes. Josef tried to rip the phone wires free, but they were as tough as sinew. As a young man, he could lift great weights, knock out men in higher weight divisions, extract almost anything from almost anyone. When he was a boy, he hefted a rose bush clear from the reluctant earth with just one hand, a feat that earned him the extravagant applause of his father. But now, in the tiny phone box, he gave the wires a final useless yank before shouldering out the door. Enough fooling around.

10

J
osef parked across the road from Sylvia's.
Parkview Motel. Formally the Cabana Inn. Cheap rates clean Tv in most rooms v cancy.
Nothing about the fact that there was no park and no view, unless you counted the road out front and the empty lot at the back.

The Parkview was like prison: most people he knew passed through at some stage of their careers. Although called a motel, the function of Sylvia's was altogether more oblique; part halfway house, part detox, part brothel. Stray members of the general public who turned up in search of a room were likely to be turned away with a surly
Sorry, no vacant rooms today.
It was for their own good as much as anything.

He scratched at his chin and picked fluff from his shabby suit. He wondered if Lee was really trying to get away, like Marcel seemed to think. He had thought about it himself once upon a time; contemplated what it would be like to get a real job, pay taxes, listen to the football on the radio. Be upstanding, write cheques and remember to collect the dry-cleaning on a Friday evening. But what would he
do
? Live one kind of life for long enough and it becomes a sort of destiny, where the future is just a version of the past. It was too late for him and he didn't see why that little prick Lee should get away. He wondered idly if he would have to kill Lee. His heart squirmed at the prospect.

He sucked at his capped tooth and observed an ambulance moving silently through the traffic, like a shark. He touched a button on his coat, a sort of genuflection, to ensure he wouldn't be the next person to travel in it—another superstition inherited from his aunt.

Josef met Lee just a few months ago. The kid was fresh out of jail. Josef had heard about him through the grapevine. Someone always heard something about someone. But he seemed a good kid, capable. Had killed a bloke in jail over something or other but was never fingered. Josef set about luring the kid. He poured good liquor and put him at ease, painted a version of life involving large sums of cash, working outside the system, not being like every other dickhead out in the suburbs.
Can always use a bloke like that
, Marcel had said when Josef mentioned him. It wasn't only that Lee had killed someone, but how he did it.
We can always use a bloke like that.

And so Josef, sure that Lee was up to it, took him around to meet Marcel, who laid a hand upon the kid's knee and said he might have something, like he was granting a wish. It was always the same routine and there had been a part of him that wanted to bundle the kid out, tell him to get a real job and forget all this ever happened. But Lee had shrugged in acquiescence and that was it—a career determined by indifference.

So Marcel gave Lee things to do, small things, collecting trivial amounts of money and running errands. Nothing complicated. The Stella thing was supposed to be simple: an old man living alone, a bag of money stashed somewhere. Not so much; this was the kid's first real job, after all. Maybe rough up the old Jew a little, just to make sure he didn't squeal. Josef did the legwork, checked things out. Lee was now his charge and he had a certain stake in him working out. Surely he couldn't have got it so badly wrong? But if he thought he could get away, then the kid was sorely mistaken.

The motel reception stank of old air freshener. A plant drooped in one corner. From a room somewhere behind the counter came a television's low burble and an accompanying grey flicker. Canned laughter. There was a path worn into the orange carpet between the front door and the reception counter. As he made the short trip, Josef thought of all the shoes that had made these exact same footfalls, how he himself was contributing to the history of the old dump. He tapped the bell on the counter and there was an intimation of movement from out the back. A muttering.

Sylvia surfaced like a pale fish from the gloom. Her eyes were at a permanent squint and her mouth set tight, sealing the tomb of her face. She approached and placed her wiry hands palm-down on the laminated counter. Her breath smelled of talc and her voice was thick with suspicion. Yes?

Sylvia. It's Josef.

Sylvia peered at Josef for a second before her features softened, but only slightly. She pushed a stray curl of bleached hair from her forehead. Josef? Jesus. Haven't seen you in about a hundred years. Should have recognised you straight away, you're still wearing the same suit. You got old. Where have you been?

Oh, you know. Just walking around. Up and down.

Everything alright, you old gypsy?

Yeah. I'm fine. How are you?

Oh, you know. Can't complain. Well I could but, you know, who'd listen?

Josef leaned in conspiratorially. He didn't have time to play these tired games with Sylvia, but she sometimes needed a little softening up before she talked. Besides, it was a relief after dealing with that bitch at Stella's place. He attempted a smile. I'd listen.

Yeah, right. But would you care?

Josef straightened to his full height. Probably not. But it might make you feel better.

Since when the hell are
you
in the business of making people feel better?

A lot can happen in a hundred years.

It can. But it doesn't. Not in this life, anyway. Maybe another time. People like us, we don't change. We go through the motions, that's all.

Their eyes met briefly before they looked away, embarrassed at sharing this shred of truth. Sylvia coughed wetly and dabbed at her lipstick with the clump of damp tissue always balled in her claw. She looked down at Josef's feet. Anyway, what can I do for you? You got no luggage.

I'm looking for someone.

Oh yes.

Young guy called Lee.

Sylvia nodded and slowly lit a cigarette. Too slowly. Her entire body seemed to swell with smoke when she inhaled. He tried to remain calm. You seen him? Is he here?

What's he look like?

He tried to sound offhand. Young. Dark hair. Skinny. Wounded maybe.

Oh.

You know him? Which room? He's got something of mine.

Nah. He's gone. Checked out last night.

Gone? What? Where?

Dunno. Him and that fella he was with. Sylvia waggled her cigarette in the air and spat out a scrap of tobacco. She coughed into her fist and patted her measly chest before serving up a half-lit smile. Her bearing shifted; she knew something more.

Was he bleeding? Hurt?

Sylvia took another drag of her cigarette and made a don't-know-if-I-can-remember face.

Who was the other man?

Don't know. Big guy. Sort of like a bear, he was. Might have been, you know, that quack—

What quack?

Another elaborate shrug. Dunno. Can't think of his name right now. Been in the papers for skipping bail. Dope fiend.

Josef ran the back of one hand over his lips, inhaling the small smell of himself. Checked out last night? What time? Any idea where they were headed? Anything?

Sylvia shook her head sadly. Can't remember. Maybe you could read some coffee grounds or something? And she brought her cigarette to her lips and sucked on it hard.

And he didn't say where they were headed?

I don't ask these things.

In a car?

Yeah. Think so. The doctor's car. Piece of shit.

To hospital maybe?

I doubt it somehow.

Josef worried at the cuff of his jacket. What was it with women, always in the fucking way? He turned and looked behind him at the jazz of traffic in the street outside. Two men in expensive-looking suits were talking beside a new, blue car. The shorter man was touching the other man's arm to make a point. They looked like estate agents or something. White-collar dickheads. He wondered what men like that spoke about. Perhaps they were friends?

Sylvia spoke again in her husky rasp. Tell you what, though. Your friend didn't look too good. And she mashed her cigarette butt into the overflowing ashtray, where it smouldered stubbornly with the pale and crooked bodies of others. She smoothed the front of her faded floral dress and jewellery clattered up and down her arm.