The Missing Boatman Part 9

Tony thought for a moment. He jammed the money into his coat's inner pocket and placed both hands on the steering wheel. Snow covered the winds.h.i.+eld, so he turned on the wipers. He stared ahead. Where did he go from here? He had a cell phone and a number that could be a lead if he pursued it enough. But how? He usually had something more to go on when he hunted down people, a place they hung out, an address, a photo even. He had squat on this one. Tony did have a friend at the telephone company. That would be a start, he supposed. And he had a name. A little digging might at least give him a direction. He also knew about the Internet and sites where all you needed was a name to help you find someone. That might be the way to go. Hang out in an Internet cafe somewhere and do a little investigating.

But...

His pa.s.senger sat in his seat, staring out at the grey morning. The wipers did a quick one-two across the winds.h.i.+eld, clearing it of snow.

"Yes, by Christ we're moving now," Fred muttered. "Really speeding along here."

Tony ignored the man. It was his dream that suddenly took a hold of his attention. Premonitions were one thing, but he had a strong sense of direction with this one. It was really there, for whatever screwy reason. A golf course. He could not shake the image of a golf course from his mind and truthfully, with the way his morning was motoring by, it seemed like the best thing he could do.

"Whenever you're ready..." Fred said.

More snow gathered on the winds.h.i.+eld. One-two. The wipers swished it all away.

West. The country was under a polar blanket of snow, but out west, Vancouver west, he heard that it rarely snows at all. Something to do with being on the coast. He even saw folks on TV playing golf out there in January. Golf! Now, there was a sign! But how the h.e.l.l was he supposed to get all the way out to British Columbia in the thick of winter? Go west. But, Jesus, did that ever feel right. He considered going the other direction but a feeling in his chest, right above his heart, made him think something would burst out of there if he deviated from heading west. Was that logical? But how to explain his hunch to Freak boy was another question.

"You ever been out west?" Tony abruptly asked Fred.

"We're going west?"

"Considering it."

"Why west?"

A scowl came across Tony's face. "I have a hunch."

"A hunch?" Fred said with an unmistakable you're s.h.i.+ttin' me right? tone underneath it.

"Yeah," Tony answered, ready to tell the man to bite it hard if the flack was forthcoming. He didn't want to tell the guy he didn't like to fly. Hated the thought.

"We'd best get going, then," was all Fred said.

That brought a look from Tony. Fred was staring ahead, watching the wipers flick back and forth, back and forth. Tony waited a moment more and realized Freak Boy wasn't going to say anything. A week. It would take more than a week to get to B.C. by car. Maybe Fred would help with the driving. Tony would ask him later. Right now, the less interaction he had with the man the better.

"Get your seatbelt on," he instructed the man, reaching around for his own belt and then placing both hands on the steering wheel.

Fred came out of a daze. He watched Tony buckle up, examined his own chest, then the winds.h.i.+eld, and finally reached around and got a hold of his own seatbelt.

West.

We're going west, the words came to Tony, and disappeared in that cringing sound of wiper rubber on winds.h.i.+eld.

Chapter 11.

Wednesday night, and Hillman was getting into the music, his big shoulders moved to the beat like a hip-hop dancer. It was his lucky break that he got the call for work, and what a job! Anytime he had to watch over a bunch of half-drunks with a stage full of naked or near-naked babes on it wasn't really work to Hillman. This was paid vacation with a license to smack people around. And smacking around drunken b.a.s.t.a.r.ds was the best if you were into smacking people around to begin with. They were easy to goad into taking the first swing, and after that, it was all game on. The fights were usually over much faster than they took to start, mostly because Hillman would strike to kill. He didn't give a f.u.c.k. If someone was throwing a punch at him, he would reply. His hands were toughened by years of construction work and punching a leather bag he had hanging in his apartment. When his fists connected with flesh, there was a distinct stoppage in play. Hillman could drop anyone with one punch. He'd like to take home Suzie, and drop her with one punch. That was one friends.h.i.+p he would love to work on. He reached into his jean pocket and discreetly adjusted his stiffening buddy there. Thoughts of Suzie were making his second-in-command come to dazed attention.

Boomer watched Hillman out of the corner of his eye as he strolled around the club, doubling as a waiter when need be. He didn't like him in the least. The bouncer wished that 'the House' was available for tonight's s.h.i.+ft, but the man had a bad cold, and listening to him h.o.a.rk and sniffle on the phone made Boomer wince. There was no other choice after that. It was Hillman or no one. And if it was no one and something happened in the club, he would never hear the end of it from Gary.

His route took him from the coat check room to the outer edge of tables, along the tables to a pause at the bar and a slow walk on past the door to Gary's office. He had a good view of things, and he didn't have to make small talk with Roy Hillman. The man was a big b.a.s.t.a.r.d, almost as big as Boomer himself, with an equally-sized ego. Boomer heard the man was once a rugby player but got tossed out of the league as he liked to enrage the other players to get them off their game. That included, as far as the stories went, Hillman jamming his thumbs up opposing players' a.s.ses in scrimmages. If he ever tried something like that on Boomer, the bouncer would quickly reciprocate with his size-thirteen boot up the man's a.s.safter breaking both the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's thumbs. Even the man's face was skewed up. His eyes were too big for his face, as if he were constantly choking on something.

Sensing he was being looked at, Hillman broke away from Suzie on stage and gave a cool what's up flick of his head.

Boomer ignored him. He was no comrade of his and did not want any such idea manifesting itself in Hillman's orcish skull. Then, on second thought, he made his way over to where Hillman was standing, who asked him a question.

"Just wave then," Boomer informed him, "but no jerking off in the toilet. You got that, man? And I f.u.c.king mean it."

Boomer liked the shocked expression on Hillman's face, knowing he pounded the nail hard on the head. He could read these unprofessional p.r.i.c.ks like bad books. At least Hillman could be embarra.s.sed at times. If it were Adam Lorne, the man would have probably offered Boomer a stroke or two. The thought made the big bouncer grimace. The people he had to work with. Why did House have to be sick? And part of him was sorry for not being able to get Levin for the night. Probably in some jail somewhere for kicking the s.h.i.+t out of someone. He could probably work with him. Levin hadn't completely gone mad-dog just yet, but he had informed them only yesterday morning that he was heading out of town. Heading to Vancouver on a job. Gary didn't ask any other questions, knowing that Levin was a freelancer. He just pa.s.sed it along to Boomer that Levin was unavailable. It was probably best he was out of Halifax for a while anyway.

The music reached a chorus, and Suzie began gyrating around one of the poles on the tongue stage, her legs flas.h.i.+ng out and scissoring up and down. She was a natural athlete, that one. Beautiful body, too.

Boomer scowled at Hillman. "Hear me?"

"Right, no problem," Hillman answered in an embarra.s.sed voice.

Boomer didn't believe him, but he nodded grimly and moved on. Jesus, he hated working with the freaks. He hoped Danny got lucky tonight to justify the pain he was enduring here.

Hillman watched the bouncer go, his shock lingering in his head and chest. His eyes found Suzie grinding her pelvis up and down against the stage pole. His embarra.s.sment was soon forgotten.

Boomer counted fourteen customers in the Beacon as he stopped by the coat check. Three of them were sitting right up in pervert's row. If no one got rowdy, then it would be a peaceful night, and that was just fine to him. It was uncommon to get so many on a Wednesday. Suzie's kibbles 'n bits brought them in any weather.

As if on cue, the outside door opened, letting in a gust of wind.

Along with the Stickman.

The man gave a wink and a nod at Boomer. Stickman paid the coat check fee and shrugged out of a leather coat. He wore a matching black turtle-neck underneath, which accentuated the man's bulk. He was short, but then so were some of the toughest walls.

"Cold out dere, brudder," the Stickman said happily. "Is whatserface on tonight?"

The scowl on Boomer face showed up too quick. "Whatser face has a name."

"Suzie? I tink," the Stickman tried, appearing to think very hard on the subject.

Boomer did not want to let him in, but he'd already taken his coat. He flicked his head in the direction of the inner door. Stickman nodded and winked again at Boomer, and then he entered the bar. The tension in his body told Boomer all he needed to know about the little s.h.i.+t's presence. It was not good news. He wished he had Danny Boy around to watch his back instead of Hillman.

In the bar, Stickman caught Suzie's eye almost immediately. It was strange how the woman picked up on that. He supposed it was his animal magnetism or some s.h.i.+t. Maybe his pheromones or whatever they called them were acting up, and she could smell him. Suzie was already naked, and must've caught some of that wind from the outside. She looked all perky. A part of him thought it was too bad. The Stickman loved to see them undress up there. He went to the bar and ordered a Keith's Beer from a mouse of a man behind the counter. He then found a place to sit with his back to the bar and sat down.

And watched.

Anyone seeing him would have thought he was enjoying the show, but after the first hour, Stickman was still on his first beer, and had seen all he needed to know. There were a few too many people in here for what he wanted to do, but he wasn't too concerned about the patrons. He was interested in the burly figure standing by the far wall, who was watching the long-haired brunette called Alexia that came on after Suzie finished her act. Alexia pranced around the tongue stage as if it were electrified, and even looked in Stickman's direction a couple of times. So did Boomer. When Stickman caught their eyes, he calmly winked back. Alexia didn't seem to mind. The Boom was another matter. Boomer was the walker. The other bouncer was stationary. Stickman did not see Mr. Tigh around, so he figured the manager was in his office. He doubted he ever took the night off. And why would he with all the talent he had up on the stage? Man would be an idiot! All in all, there were three men visible to the Stickman. Two of them were threats. The bartender did not seem so unless he had a bat underneath the counter. He thought about the pair of bouncers. He wanted to catch them apart.

Divide and conquer.

He waited. He had his walls erected about him, or, as Stickman liked to think of them, his "force fields", invisible boundaries surrounding him that were sensitive enough to detect anyone approaching him. Ninja Bill had taught him a thing or two about elevating his sixth sense ability, his sensitivity as to who was inside his personal s.p.a.ce. Most people thought such things were bulls.h.i.+t, but Ninja Bill demonstrated to the Stickman quite convincingly that such preconceptions could be fatal, especially to an attacker thinking he was sneaking up on a would-be victim. What was incredibly freaky was utilizing such abilities in fights where a person couldn't see. Blind fighting, Ninja Bill called it. The Stickman had learned quite a bit from Ninja Bill. Stickman had learned to elevate his ability to a level where, when he looked, almost always he would catch Boomer's eyes on his person. Call it paranoia, but Stickman's sensitivity to such things had saved his bacon a number of times. So, while he appeared outwardly calm to most, the invisible fields surrounding him were crackling with energy, and were as sensitive as a spider's freshly spun web.

Stickman waited. The chance would reveal itself.

The unknown bouncer eventually waved to Boomer, who nodded and sauntered on over to the coat check, making eye contact again with Stickman. Stickman smiled back, still trying hard to keep a faade of good humour, while in his mind, he was thinking how much he would like to hook both eyes out with his thumbs. Boomer calmly broke the stare and swept his gaze around the dark interior of the bar. Stickman noted the other bouncer heading for the washroom, disappearing behind the swinging door.

Stickman finished his beer, set the empty bottle gently down on the table, and waited for a minute. Exactly one minute. Counting slow, pacing his breath, and controlling the building energy in his body. He did not have to think about what he was about to do. He need only do it.

When Boomer's eyes were on him again, Stickman stood up and, with a wide smile, made the gesture of taking a p.i.s.s. Boomer looked away with a disgusted look.

Stickman went to the washroom.

Chapter 12.

"Breathe son, breathe," Hillman coaxed his pride, standing as if he were astride a horse and far back enough from the urinal that anyone walking into the facilities would have a generous view of what G.o.d had blessed him with.

"She's a fine piece of a.s.s, that Alexia. Help me out now, and I'll help you out later, ok?" Hillman gave himself a quick stroke while looking down at the curved porcelain before him, willing himself to urinate. His gun was half-c.o.c.ked as it was. He tried taking deep breaths to relax, to give him some slack, but the trouble was indecent images of both Suzie and Alexia double timing him back at his apartment were keeping the blood in his second head. Hillman considered going into the nearby stall and choking his chicken (to h.e.l.l with Boomer and what he said-the man had to be d.i.c.kless not to be affected by what was up on stage), when he heard the door open. That wasn't going to slow him down.

Stickman made to go past the positioned Hillman, towards the stalls, ignoring both the bouncer and the blue cake sanitary smell filling the room. The lad was enjoying himself a little bit too much, and Stick shook his head at the offensive scene. It justified what he was about to do. He moved past the two white basins next to the urinals and casually made his way to one of the two stalls in the washroom. Hillman paid the man no attention. The bouncer's eyes were closed, and a snarl of pleasure creased his face.

Stick felt the adrenaline surge into his arms, his engines. He felt the chemical sing through his powerful biceps and charge them up. With the bouncer preoccupied as he was, there was no need for silence. Stickman pivoted and took a quick two step, bringing up a hand to clamp down on a pair of denim covered t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es. Hillman gave a muted wheeze of agony and actually tried to jump away, but the strength left his legs in a flood. He blew snot out his nose and grabbed the edge of the urinal with both hands. His knees buckled, and he dropped to the floor. He opened his mouth to vomit when Stickman wrapped both arms around his neck in a choke hold, crus.h.i.+ng the blood flow in the man's right and left vertebral arteries. Hillman tried to suck in some air but got nothing. He tried to stand, willed himself to stand, but Stickman drove his knees into the back of the man's legs, and the big man dropped. Hillman's eyes bulged. His tongue shot out. Saliva trickled out of a corner of his mouth. His arms lashed out spasmodically, reached up and clawed weakly at Stickman's face. Under different circ.u.mstances, it might have been a caress. Then, the screaming of Hillman's t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es began to lessen, and his sight became black at the edges, as if his consciousness was being yanked backwards, away from the windows that were his eyes, to somewhere deep within his skull. Then, nothing.

Stickman didn't need to s.h.i.+ft his weight in the least. Grabbing the b.a.s.t.a.r.d by the b.a.l.l.s had done it. The choke was just the 'coop da gra.s.s', or however they said it in French. Hillman's neck had slipped into Stickman's grasp as easy as a single bolt locking a door. It took a little longer than maybe five seconds, and the man's struggles were little more than a child's resistance at being dragged out on the dance floor. He held on to the man for a few seconds more just to be certain. Then he released his victim.

"Ye wit me?" Stickman arched back the man's head and gazed into the eyes that were half closed, half rolled back. He held onto the man's hair and rammed his face into the hard porcelain of the urinal. Blood burst onto the white as Hillman's nose broke on contact. Stickman watched the man's body crumple lifelessly to the floor. He kicked the bouncer's ribs. Satisfied that the bouncer wasn't playing around, the Newfoundlander began hauling his victim into one of the empty stalls. Stickman wanted to place him on the toilet at first, but decided against it when he saw the front of the man's unzipped jeans. He had p.i.s.sed himself, his p.e.n.i.s hanging out like a fire hose peeking through a bird's nest of pubic hair. Stickman didn't want the man's p.i.s.s on him, so he left him in the corner of the stall and closed the door. If anyone came looking, they would see the legs splayed out and guess the f.u.c.ker had pa.s.sed out over the can while puking. The subterfuge would last long enough to do the next part.

"Seeya, buddy," Stickman sighed heavily and winked at the closed stall door. That was one.

The next song was warming up as he eased out of the washroom. An old Bob Segar tune. He looked briefly at Alexia, taking in her pink parts. She was whirling around a pole in such a way that made Stickman think of the Olympics. But she didn't hold a candle to his Suzie. No, sir. Suzie was his gal.

He focused on the manager's door across the way, just beyond the last set of tables. There was no light seeping around the edges. No evidence of anyone actually being in the room, except he was. Tigh was in there. He was always in there. It was his lair. Stickman coolly glanced around and saw Boomer in the outer coat room. Some new guys were coming into the club maybe. Stick walked towards Tigh's door, feeling his feet hit the floor in perfect beat with the pounding music. He thought of the Crocodile Hunter, the poor guy killed by a sting ray. He couldn't remember his exact name, but as he approached Tigh's office, with the music cras.h.i.+ng down, he heard the man's voice in his head. O've travelled quite a bit, but t'day, as luck would 'ave it, we've located the cave of a crime boss. A real focking bastahd of one at that! This particular breed is a Tigh, known exclusively for the amount of 'orses.h.i.+te it can spit out-up to a distance of New Brunswick! Lethal stuff! A roight nasty c.o.c.ksmoka, but today we'll 'ave 'im and see just 'ow far we can stick our boot up his leathery a.r.s.e before it chokes to death on the polish. By crikey!

Just loverly.

Stickman placed his hand on the doork.n.o.b, another quick scan registered no Boomer, and he cracked open the door.

With his feet propped up on his huge desk and his head deep into a Larry McMurty western, the opening of the door went unheard until the music found its way in. This made Tigh look up to see the Stickman slip into his inner chambers like a greased up s.h.i.+t-snake. The appearance of the man surprised Tigh to no end. He blinked once, as if taking a picture, then sat up. The Stickman closed the door.

And began walking towards him.

"What the sweet f.u.c.k are you doing in here, you f.u.c.king stupid Newf?" Tigh spat out, not believing his eyes in the least. He tossed the book down on the desk.

Stickman smiled. "Howya doin', Mr. Tigh. Taught I pay ye anudder visit."

"GET THE f.u.c.k OUTTA HERE!" Tigh yelled, his face turning steam red. He stood up, posturing like a school teacher dismissing a naughty child and pointing in the direction to the princ.i.p.al's office. "RIGHT f.u.c.kING NOW! How the h.e.l.l did you get past Boomer?"

Stickman spread his hands.

"Mr. Tigh, I'll ask ye again. Nice like. 'Oose da guy dat did the job on Badger?"

Tigh's face tightened in disbelief as if he were seeing an x-ray of his lungs, and death by way of cancer was unavoidable. He stabbed the air with his finger. "Now, you listen to me," he said in a much lower voice, "you little c.u.mdrop"

"Mr. Tigh," Stickman grinned hard, as if he were advertising a particular brand of toothpaste. "Tell me now, eh? If ye don't tell me now, I'll break ye in two. As gawd's me witness."

Tigh regarded the little wall of a man approaching him, open hands swinging at his sides. He fought down the urge to swallow. His eyes flicked to the closed door, the music noticeably muted as the guys who built the thing had promised.

"If you" Tigh started and stuck his finger out again.

Stickman was close enough to grab it. He snapped it backwards, breaking the digit like a thick icicle. Tigh shrieked and tried to pull away. Stickman held on and twisted hard enough to drive the man to his knees. Tigh's other hand came up in wors.h.i.+p. Agony scorched his hand all the way up his arm, shoulder, into his head and buzzed his brain like a jolt from a defibrillator. Nausea threatened to empty his stomach of the chicken fingers he gorged himself on an hour earlier.

"Dere's a good by," Stickman said, pleased with the results. He pulled Tigh closer. The crime lord whimpered, swearing loudly, his free hand covering his face.

"BOOMER!" he bawled out.

Stickman made a face and twisted again. The name died into a croak.

"'Oo did it?" Stickman hissed through clenched teeth, glaring into the pain filled slits of Tigh's eyes. "'Oo?"

"JESUS!"

"Mexican guy?" Stickman's brow made a single, curious hop.

"Oh, f.u.c.k!"

This got on Stickman's nerves. He pulled closer, and Tigh came forward on his knees. The punch came like a torpedo from Stickman's waist, his fist twisting with power. Tigh's nose broke in a torrent of thick, dark poppy red. He crumpled onto the floor with his arm outstretched. Stickman did not let go. He wrapped his arm around Tigh's in an arm lock, and dragged the moaning man to the edge of his big, hardwood desk. He manhandled him onto its surface. Books pens and paper scattered. Stickman savagely arranged the p.r.o.ne body onto the table like an Aztec priest about to offer a sacrifice. He placed Tigh's elbow on the edge of the desk, straightened the limb out, and dropped his full weight onto it. The limb broke with a crack that Stickman felt through his clothes. Tigh screamed, once again. Ninja Bill would've loved this, Stickman thought. He sized up Tigh's arm, which was now a lazy L over the edge of the desk.

His grimace covered in blood, Tigh opened his eyes, and said nothing.

"Yer tough, Mr. Tigh," Stickman complimented the man. "But I 'aven't broken ye in 'alf yet. 'Ave a guess 'ow I'll do dat?"

Tigh bared his teeth. "BOOMER!" he screeched with all the energy he had remaining. Stickman's open palm, the heel first, crashed into Tigh's ear. Stickman landed two more punches into his sacrifice's ribs, each punch moving the man a little closer to the desk's edge. He stopped and flipped Tigh over onto the hard floor with a grunt. Tigh landed face down, blood bubbles bursting from his nose.

"Yer a wrestling fan, Mr. Tigh?"

Stickman landed on top of Tigh's back. The man was too heavy for Tigh to dislodge even if he had had the strength to do it. He was in terrible shape. The worst shape ever. His only chance was in getting Boomer. He summoned up the breath and was about to scream again when he felt fingers under his chin lacing together like steel cables. His yell became a caged thing, an agonized expulsion of trapped sound. Blood sprayed from his mouth, and his eyes cringed with the new pain in his lower back. "f.u.c.k!" he spat/shrieked out through his clamped jaws.

"Yeah, dat's it. Da camel clutch. Ye know da one? Ever try dat out for real?"

With his fingers clutching Tigh's chin, his b.u.t.t firmly in place on the crime boss's lower back, and his thighs up and under supporting Tigh's arms and upper body like a crucified prisoner, Stickman leaned back. All sound in Tigh stopped then, and his punch-dazed brain quickly became aware of its predicament. He felt his spine being bent slowly backwards. Stickman leaned back further, both feet planted firmly, remembering how the Sat.u.r.day morning wrestlers used to do it, and wondering if it was real or not. A little grunt burped from Tigh's lips, followed by another.

Then the sound grew into a terrible, pain wracked howl through caged teeth.