Claw Page 10

  CHAPTER TEN

  “You asshole!” Manny Oritz shook his fist at the shithead in the red Toyota Prius that just cut in front of his Hummer H1. Unconcerned about his speed or the law, he flew along the High Occupancy Vehicle lane, sometimes weaving back into the non-HOV lane to pass slow-assed drivers in his way. Though he was likely breaking most provincial and many federal transportation laws at the moment, he was okay with that. The only other occupant of the vehicle, Oritz’s constant travelling companion, required no seatbelt by law and remained mute, saying nothing of his driving. The sleek, black Glock 17 sat cocked and ready to fire on the passenger seat beside him.

  Manny Oritz was many things to many people, but a nice guy was not one of them, and he didn't have a problem with that either — in fact, he owned it. Then again, most people who hired Manny never hired him for his manners and sparkling personality; they hired him for his persuasive abilities and dedication to the highest bidder.

  Over the last decade, he had worked in varying capacities for Ray Chance and Bob Nichols as the pair had sought to get the Golden Nugget Casino up and running. Officially, he’d worked for them as an on-again, off-again ‘Security Consultant Specialist’. At least, that’s what it said on the T4 he gave to the Canada Revenue Agency each year. When he thought about it, he really was more of a Manny-of-all-trades. There’d been several bumps along the way that he’d smoothed over for his employers. Sometimes the bumps were small, such as greasing somebody’s palm to look the other way. Other times, they were quite large, almost man-sized, in fact, requiring a pick, a shovel, and a nice deep hole somewhere.

  Chance had called him the previous day saying he’d wanted him up at some new cavern they’d found ASAP. He’d babbled on, saying he wanted Manny to check things out up there and keep an eye on this place for a little while, but wouldn't say why. At first, it’d sounded more like a glorified security guard position, and he almost declined the job. But after Chance offered him an ungodly amount of money and told him he’d already chartered a plane to the interior of the province for him, Manny had changed his mind. He was now on his way to YVR to catch it, and he was running late.

  “Cocksucker!” Manny stomped on the Humvee’s accelerator and roared up behind the small, red Japanese import. He started flashing his lights and honking his horn aggressively as he wove back and forth behind the car like a cobra ready to strike.

  A gap appeared in the traffic to his right, and he took it. He cranked the wheel hard and shot into the next lane, cutting off a Honda Fit that was approaching rapidly in his review mirror. Manny flipped his finger at the Honda driver and shot forward past the red Prius. With another crank of the wheel to the left, he cut in front of the hybrid and then stomped his foot on the brake pedal. As his brake lights flared red in the other driver’s face, he shouted, “That’ll learn ya, ya piece of shit!”

  The red Prius behind him reacted to the H1’s brake lights and swerved to avoid Manny's suddenly slowing vehicle. It was too much, too fast, and the other driver, an elderly woman, over-corrected and lost control of her car. She slammed into the concrete barrier that separated the highway from opposing traffic and spun around several times.

  Oritz gloated as he glanced in his rear-view mirror and saw the small car come to a smoking halt. Throwing his middle finger up in salute once more, he accelerated rapidly in a cloud of diesel exhaust and took the turnoff to the airport, unable to stop grinning from ear to ear as he did.

  Arriving at the outermost long-term lot of YVR, he skidded the massive SUV to a halt. He collected his bag and the Glock from the passenger seat beside him and opened the driver's door. Before he exited, he separated the coloured wires hanging down from the broken ignition lock and killed the engine. He smiled, thinking how great Vancouver was to live in, thanks to so many accommodating people leaving easy-to-steal vehicles all over the place.

  After a brisk walk to the main terminal, Manny Oritz swaggered into the Vancouver International Airport and scoped the rubes. The place was surprisingly busy, awash with young men and women coming and going. As he thrust through the throng, he overheard a small group of young women discussing their vacation plans, and he suddenly tumbled to the fact that it was the yearly spring break for college students. Glancing around, he smiled when he saw that some of the young men had started their partying early, sipping discretely from cans of beer in paper bags as they waited for their flights to warmer and more girl-filled destinations.

  His pocket vibrated, and he pulled out his phone. The charter company had just texted him he was going to be departing an hour later than planned due to circumstances beyond their control. "Son of a BITCH!" Manny hollered as he read the message, startling a group of white-haired seniors in loud Hawaiian shirts and mumus as he stormed by.

  The VIP lounge was a very sedate and muted affair in comparison to the main part of the airport, just how Manny liked it. The decor, though bland, had no doubt been designed to calm nervous travellers. The well-stocked bar had almost every variety of booze that Manny had ever heard of, and then some. Not that he wanted a drink at this time of the day, God no! He stepped up to the bar and the attendant approached him, asking what his poison was. Manny frowned at the man and ordered a ginger ale.

  Manny paid without tipping and sat down at the bar. He shuddered as he thought of where he was going. It wasn't from fear, though, it was from disgust. Inhaling deeply of the filtered, bland air in the lounge, he tried to clear his nasal passages, but it seemed he could still smell the cloud of brandy fumes that would be emanating from Ray Chance when he saw the man this afternoon. There was no time of the day that wasn’t a good time for a drink for that boy. Manny grimaced and shook his head as he thought of the booze the man poisoned himself with -- he seemed to have absolutely no respect for his own body.

  Speaking of bodies, with an hour to wait, he was bored. Manny decided it was now time to indulge in one of his favourite hobbies, fucking people over. At the far end of the bar sat a rather sad-looking business traveller. The small, balding man’s gaze was fixed on a small tumbler of amber fluid before him. Manny sniffed the air deeply, once more, and now knew the reason for his olfactory flash-forward to later in the day, the man he was about to fuck with was drinking the same crappy French brandy that Ray Chance did.

  Oritz grinned as he thought of the fun he was about to have. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he extracted a black leather wallet that contained a very believable reproduction of a CSIS ID. He flipped it open briefly, admiring the craftsmanship of his friendly neighbourhood forger back home, Bobby Dubois. In the picture, Manny was glowering at the camera. He took a moment to adjust his current expression to match the photo, losing the slightly insane grin that was presently residing there. Now in character, he pulled a pair of black Ray-Bans from an interior pocket and perched them on his aquiline nose, then slicked back his dark, wavy hair with both hands. As if to admire the arriving and departing planes, he sauntered toward a massive, plate-glass window, glancing at the small man’s carry-on luggage tag as he passed. He paused for a moment, then approached the man from behind. Placing his left hand on the man's shoulder, he spun the swivel stool around. With his most stone-faced expression, Manny said to the wide-eyed man, "Excuse me, Mr. Anderson, I need to ask you some questions regarding your destination today. The man's face went white, and his drooping eyelids flew wide when he saw the CSIS ID in Oritz’s right hand. Apparently, he had this man’s attention.

  "I-I-I'm sorry?" the man stuttered nervously, flustered that this officer of the law that stood before him had called him by name, no doubt.

  Manny watched the man’s reaction and mentally clapped his hands together in glee. It was time to rattle some bones in this man’s closet. Still looking very serious on the outside, despite his excitement on the inside, Oritz said, "I'm agent Tom Davis with CSIS.” After Pocketing the ID, he looked down at the man and stared at him for a moment to make him squirm a bit more. When Manny had wandered past the man moments before, he
’d noted his name from a plastic, laminate tag on his carry-on luggage. According to that tag, he was now fucking with Robert Anderson. He pushed forward with his spiel, saying, "We've had you under surveillance for the last little while now, Mr. Anderson, and are aware of your connections in Detroit." Oritz had also noted the man's destination on the check tag attached to his carry-on luggage, DTW — short for the Detroit Metro Airport.

  "My connections?" the man squeaked from fear-tightened vocal cords.

  Oritz smiled inwardly, loving how Bob Anderson was now the living embodiment of the expression ‘sweating bullets’. Rivulets of sweat poured off the pudgy man’s consternation-knitted brow.

  "Yes, Mr. Anderson, we've been monitoring your email and voicemail for the past several months and are aware of your activity south of the border." Manny kept his voice low, calm and slightly threatening.

  "But I'm just a software developer." The man's face was now white.

  "We know you're much more than that, Mr. Anderson."

  "Really! I just make apps for iPhones!"

  "You need to come with me, Mr. Anderson."

  The man blanched as Oritz spoke those words. "B-b-but, I haven't done anything!"

  Oritz pulled out the handcuffs he kept in his pocket for special occasions like this and slapped them onto Anderson’s wrists. "Dead or alive, you're coming with me." He pulled the man to a standing position with one beefy hand, then grabbed the man’s carry-on bag with the other. Anderson had changed colours from ‘white with fear’ to a lovely shade of ‘beet-red from embarrassment’. Oritz almost laughed aloud when he thought to himself that the boy must be part chameleon. He pushed the man along in front of him, herding him toward a small, unlocked utility closet in a quiet corner that he’d reconned earlier on his way into the airport.

  "W-where are you taking me?"

  "I need to ask you some questions in the interrogation room, Mr. Anderson. If you answer them correctly, I'll let you go. If I suspect you're lying, I'll be taking you in. Then, you'll be spending a very long time in a very small cell after I charge you with espionage."

  "What? Espionage? I'm no spy, really!"

  "That's what they all say, Mr. Anderson." Manny smiled behind the man's back as he shoved him into the utility closet. Glancing at his wristwatch, he noted the time for him to have fun was growing short. He shut the door behind them and locked it. Spinning Anderson around once more, Oritz growled, "Now, it's time to ask you some questions."

  The was the part Manny loved the best. Though he usually never harmed anyone too much when he pulled this routine on unsuspecting strangers, there were always exceptions. There was the odd time someone would get panicked and tried to flee from his 'police' presence. He usually found a good whack upside the head with his Glock usually brought them back around to their senses. Most of the time, he just loved to intimidate people and make them sweat, and most people were quite cooperative in that regard. Quite often, they'd sing like a little tweety bird, spilling all sorts of dark little secrets to him. This segued quite nicely into his other favourite hobby, blackmail. Several months later, once his victims had almost put the traumatic experience out of their mind, he'd contact them. All of the embarrassing things they'd unwillingly shared with him while under duress during their initial 'consultation' were then used to extort more money from them. Though Anderson was dumpy looking, the gold Rolex on wrist belied his true wealth, and Oritz was always looking to further his own retirement efforts.

  Ten minutes, and several thousand dollars in donated jewellery and cash later, Manny slipped back out of the supply closest. Grinning from ear to ear once more, his sour mood was now gone. Ruffling through a thick wad of bills in his hand, he was almost looking forward to his flight to the interior of the province now -- almost but not quite.

  Since Lawless was basically a no-fly zone in wintertime these days, Manny's flight was into Castlegar’s regional airport instead. He sincerely hoped that his upcoming flight to that mountain town wouldn't end with it living up to the nickname given it by the locals, Cancelgar. That small city suffered some of the same meteorological woes as Lawless, thanks to winter valley cloud affecting inbound and outbound flights to the region. Though not as pathetic as Lawless weather could be, Castlegar was still problematic and came in a close second. He shook his head dolefully as he thought about it. The last thing he needed was for his flight to get rerouted due to bad weather and end up in some even more God-forsaken place, like Trail, or heaven forbid, Cranbrook.

  Oritz discreetly riffed through the thick wad of bills in his hand once more before stuffing them into his jacket pocket. He was already mentally calculating how much money Ray Chance was going to pay him as he thrust through the doors into the charter waiting area. A grin of avarice threatened to split his face in half as he passed a group of blue hairs. Several of the old biddies looked at him uneasily, noting the slightest hint of insanity behind his smile. They quickly glanced away in fear when he turned his gaze toward them. Crazy as a shit-house rat, one ex-associate had once called his lunatic lear. And he was more than okay with that — in fact, he owned it.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Lawless and District Health Centre, known in a previous life as ‘The Hospital’, was built in 1897 at the height of the town’s wealth. The city founders determined that a larger medical facility with more doctors was needed since the single, local physician at the time was kept extremely busy. Doc Brown sometimes put in twenty-hour days patching up residents and rogues alike who found themselves at the wrong end of a knife or gun. It was one of the oldest buildings in Lawless and also served as the regional medical centre for many smaller communities nearby, including Driftwood and Silvervale. Four gargoyles decorated the corners of the main building’s parapets. The winged demons, along with the rest of the intricately cut stonework had been hand-hewn from a local quarry — it had been built to last. Despite the now quaint appearance of the building on the outside, it was updated and modern inside with two new wings added onto either side over the last two decades.

  Sadly, Austin reflected, something not as updated and modern were the repeaters around Lawless. The mountainous terrain and lack of towers wreaked havoc with local cell phone reception. He’d been trying to call the medical centre to put them on alert regarding their impending delivery of Jerry, but the lack of reception had foiled his attempts to do so. With Trip at the wheel and their emergency lights on, they were making good time through the fog, and ten minutes away from the hospital, Austin was finally able to get through. He told the emergency room what their ETA should be, and the attendant on duty replied they would be standing by for their arrival.

  Amber lights flashing as they approached through the fog, Trip pulled the Works pickup truck under the covered emergency entrance. “Okay, Jerry, here we are!” Austin said, looking over at the man. He’d been fading in and out of consciousness and muttering to himself since they’d gotten him into the truck. Austin wasn’t surprised to see that he was currently unconscious.

  The hospital had been as good as its word -- waiting outside the emergency entrance were two orderlies with a stretcher. The disparity in size between the orderlies couldn’t have been more pronounced. One was extremely tall, almost seven feet if the height marker on the doorframe behind him were anything to go by. The other attendant couldn’t have been more than five feet tall. Mutt and Jeff, Austin thought, that’s what his dad would have called them.

  “Hey, guys! Here’s your patient,” Austin said, jumping down out of the truck. He stepped aside so the orderlies could extract Jerry and put him onto the gurney.

  “What happened to him?” Mutt asked.

  “Fell about five metres onto some snow-covered rocks. Might have a possible fracture in his arm, plus exposure for an undetermined amount of time. We believe he may have been attacked by an animal of some sort as well, so I would check him for bite marks, too, with rabies and all, you know.”

  “We’ll check all his nooks and crannies,�
�� Jeff said, tucking Jerry into place on the gurney while Mutt strapped him down for transport.

  The orderlies wheeled the stretcher through the airlock into the emergency room. Austin tagged along, wanting to speak to the ER Doc on duty to fill them in about Jerry’s condition.

  Several quiet minutes passed for Trip, and he was just beginning to doze off when Austin climbed into the truck once more, saying, “Hey, Sleeping Beauty, we need to go to the cop-shop now so that I can report this.”

  Give his head a slight shake to clear the fog from his napping brain, Trip blinked and said, “You got it, Boss.”

  Located just around the corner, the police station loomed out of the fog as they pulled into the lot. Almost as old as the hospital, and just as solid, it was bland and unimpressive, lacking the flair of the other building. It was as if the architect had gotten bored and not spent nearly as much time on its design and decoration as they had on the hospital. It was a much more sombre and industrial-looking structure, designed to instill a sense of fear and respect, rather than health and wellbeing like the hospital.