Desolation Station: A Jimmy Blue novel (The Jimmy Blue Series Book 4) Page 2

  "Relax, Don." Tina placed the beers on the tray along with the tab. "They're quiet, is all, and they've only drunk two beers apiece. Just passing through, I guess."

  "You know me too well."

  "You're a worrier, Don. When did you last take a vacation?"

  Don answered her question away with a smile. He could afford a vacation, but why bother? He could be alone here, cheaper.

  Tina smothered a yawn. Mondays were as close as she got to a day off. She worked at the coffee shop until mid-afternoon. He wondered how she filled the rest of the day. Sleeping, mostly, he guessed.

  He watched her take the drinks to the table. About two years after Tina started working for him, he'd fallen for her. Nearly twenty years her senior, with one failed marriage behind him, he told himself not to do anything stupid. If he asked her out, he'd risk losing a friend, and a great worker, too. So Don said nothing. Lately, he wondered if that might have been a mistake. A year ago, Tina had won a school raffle. Dinner for two at a new Italian place. She'd asked Don if he wanted to go, and he'd laughed, thinking she was joking. She'd laughed too, said she would take her kid, treat him.

  Don often thought of that moment. He'd turn sixty next year, and Tina's kid would leave for college the same summer. She'd be lonely, too. Maybe she wasn't joking about dinner. Maybe, if he asked her on a date, Tina would say yes. Maybe.

  "Mm. Mm. D-Donny?"

  The voice was behind him. Don jumped, swivelled around.

  "Tom. You startled me. Everything OK back there?"

  For a big man—and Tom, despite habitually hunching to avoid attention, must have stood six foot two or three in his bare feet—Don's bar-back had a knack for fading into the background.

  "Mm. OK. I c-cleaned the, the, mm, kitchen."

  "Great." Don surveyed his domain. George was draining his last beer. Tina had taken cash from the strangers and was fishing out their change from her apron. Eight minutes until closing.

  "Come on, Tom, I'll help move the fridge so you can get behind it with the mop."

  "N-n-no need. Mm, I, mm, did it."

  "You did?" The fridge in question, industrial, full of bottles, could usually only be shuffled forward by two strong individuals working together. "Right. OK. Good. Thank you. Why don't you wipe down the tables? We'll be closing up in a few minutes."

  He eyed Tom's broad shoulders and massive forearms as the young man walked away. He didn't look like a gym rat, didn't walk with that bowlegged bodybuilding narcissist gait. Tom's strength seemed natural. Like a bear, Don often thought. Unlike a bear, though, Tom radiated no sense of threat. The opposite, in fact. When Don took him on, he offered Tom the role of bouncer at weekends, to boost his pay. Tom refused, and, after a couple weeks of fetching, carrying, clearing tables, and clearing up spillages, it was obvious why. Tom did everything he could to avoid confrontation. Every bar had a scuffle or two weekends, but Don's new bar-back scurried away at the first sign of trouble. And Tom barely spoke unless addressed directly. The only way to ensure eye contact was to look at his ID card.

  Don didn't mind. The same bar owner's instinct that had him monitor the table by the stage told him he could trust Tom. A loner, yes, not the smartest guy in town, sure, but a hard worker: reliable, and strong as an ox on steroids.

  All of which was in Tom's favour. If someone that size and strength had a mean streak, Don wouldn't want him within five miles of his bar. However, when the strangers stood up to leave, and one of them pulled out a heavy revolver and pointed it at Tina's chest, Don wouldn't have minded if Tom had become even averagely aggressive. Instead, when the other two men also pulled guns, the bar-back looked up from the table he was wiping, and froze, the cloth dripping in his hand.

  "Let's keep this civil, folks," said the oldest of the three, evidently the leader. He spoke to Don but kept his gun trained on Tina, who was doing that thing with her lips women do when they put on lipstick; rolling them over her teeth, then back, over and over.

  The leader was in his fifties, his stubble streaked with grey. Average height. He looked like Brad Pitt might have looked if he hadn't won the genetic lottery. Mouth too narrow, lips thin. Cheekbones prominent, but giving the hollowed features a gaunt rather than striking quality. Blue eyes too close together. On his wrist, the faded blues and greens of a prison tattoo. "Stay smart, and you'll live longer. We clear?"

  Don's brain slowed. His solar plexus, never an area of his body warranting much attention, had gone cold and heavy, like he'd swallowed a frozen stone the size of a bread roll. His fingertips buzzed. He put the glass he'd been holding onto the bar top.

  Ugly Brad Pitt moved the barrel of his gun until it touched Tina's chest.

  "Talking to you, boss. I said, are we fucking clear?"

  "Yes. Yes, sir." The vibration in Don's fingertips had spread to his skull, and his voice made it buzz more. "We're clear. What do you want?"

  "Any firearms back there, boss?"

  Don didn't even consider lying. In twenty years of owning the bar, he'd only taken the Winchester off the bracket behind the bar once. It was a deterrent.

  "A shotgun."

  The leader nodded at one of his companions. This man shared the too-close eyes and thin lips. Siblings? Father and son? No grey in his stubble, and he vaulted the bar with little effort. Don stepped back to let the younger man retrieve the shotgun. Brad Junior checked it was loaded, then tossed it to the third man, who brandished his new firearm with satisfaction. Brad Junior produced a hunting knife and held it loosely in his left hand, a challenge in his expression. Don looked away.

  "Hands behind your back, sweetheart." This to Tina, who complied. Ugly Brad tucked his gun behind his back so he could zip tie her wrists together. While he did it, Tina looked at Don. He gave her a small nod. Hoped it was reassuring. Doubted it.

  "Your emergency exit connected to an alarm, boss?" Don looked at Ugly Brad, then over at the exit behind Tom.

  "No, sir." Not even a silent alarm, like the sales fellow from Raleigh had tried to sell him last fall. Should have listened.

  Ugly Brad called over to Tom, who was still immobile, staring at a patch of floor.

  "Busboy. Go open the fire door."

  Tom didn't move, but his eyes flashed briefly to Don's. The poor kid looked terrified.

  "It's OK, Tom. Go ahead. Just do as they say."

  "That's right, Tommy," said the leader. "Do as we say. Wouldn't wanna have to shoot you."

  The third man's skin was an unhealthy, pasty grey. Thickset, with rotten teeth which he displayed often, smiling every few seconds for no apparent reason. Probably high, thought Don, the icy stone in his gut weighing heavier by the second. High, and carrying Don's loaded pump-action Winchester. When Tom shuffled towards the exit, Bad Teeth followed, ten feet behind the bar-back. He didn't need to be closer. If Bad Teeth fired the shotgun, the spray of pellets would take out Tom, smash the windows, and shred the upholstery of the booths along the west wall.

  "Own it, mofugger," growled Bad Teeth. His diction was sloppy as all hell. Tom looked back, confused.

  "Own it," repeated Bad Teeth, lifting the shotgun for emphasis.

  "Open it," called Don. "He wants you to open it."

  "Wah said." Bad Teeth jabbed the gun with each word. "Stoop-ass mofugger."

  Tom pushed the handle, and the emergency exit door swung open. Outside, a fourth man waited. Even as the door opened, he was in motion, swinging a baseball bat towards Tom's head.

  Tom pivoted to his right, meaning the bat caught the back of his neck instead of his chin. The shocking smack of wood on flesh made Don recoil, and Tina turn away. Tom took a half step before he fell—to his knees at first—face forward onto the wooden floor.

  The new man bent down, picked up a gym bag. Then he stepped inside, handed the bat to Bad Teeth, and kneeled on Tom's back, inducing another, quieter, groan. He cable-tied Tom's wrists together, then—looking at the size of the bar-back—added a second zip tie, pulling it tight.

&nbs
p; "We good?" The new man aimed the question at Ugly Brad. He retrieved his bag and bat before approaching the bar. Bad Teeth followed. The new guy was about the same age as Ugly Brad, but stocky, black, bearded, bald. He wore jeans and a leather jacket. Don guessed he'd arrived on a motorcycle. Meaning none of this was opportunistic. These guys had a plan.

  "No problemo, buddy," said Ugly Brad. "Easy meat." He put a hand casually on Tina's breast when he said this. She flinched, and Don's icy stone grew hot with a raw anger that surprised him.

  "Hey!" The word was out before Don could stop it. No one touched Tina. No one.

  Ugly Brad noticed the change in him, smiled, gave Tina's breast another squeeze, his eyes on Don. "She your girlfriend, boss? Or do you just wish you could cop a feel yourself?"

  Tina gave Don a tiny shake of her head. He took a long, shaky breath. If we live through this, Don promised himself, tell her how you feel. You ain't getting any younger. What's the worse that can happen?

  The newcomer barked at Ugly Brad. "We're here on business. Got it?" Ugly Brad gave the bald man in the leather jacket a sour look, but he took his hands off Tina. So Leather Jacket was the leader.

  "No one needs to get hurt," said Leather Jacket. He pointed his baseball bat at Don. "Open the register."

  Something's different, something's changed. Don didn't know what, but the voice in his head nagged at him. What's different? Think.

  Brad Junior backed away so Don could get to the register. Don was aware of the knife inches from his back as he laid the bills out on the bar.

  "Sundays are slow," he said, as Leather Jacket placed the gym bag on the bar and unzipped it. He scooped up the couple of hundred dollars and dropped the money into the bag. He gave Don his instructions.

  "My friend here will accompany you to your office, where you'll open your safe and give him the cash. Then we're gonna take your wallets, purses, and cell phones, tie you up, and leave. You're in for an uncomfortable few hours, but we can't have you calling the cops on us. We'd prefer to be out of state by the time anyone finds you. I'm sure you understand."

  Brad Junior picked up the gym bag. Waved the knife. "Move, asshole."

  Don moved. Then everything went dark.

  "What the fuck?" This from Brad Junior, who moved in close enough that Don smelled beer, gum, and stale breath.

  The tip of the knife poked into Don's side, and he gasped, a trickle of blood running down to his belt. "Power cut. It must be a power cut."

  "Nobody panic," said Leather Jacket. He pulled out a phone, but the light wasn't powerful enough to reach the shadows. "You got a flashlight, man?"

  "In the office," said Don, listening to the short breaths of the man holding the knife.

  "Good. We carry on as planned. This changes nothing."

  But Don knew different. Don knew this was no power cut. Because now he knew what the nagging voice had been trying to tell him. When Leather Jacket had given his orders, Don had looked right at him. And, behind him, everything was normal. The chairs and tables, the coasters, the booths. Nothing unusual. And that was what had triggered Don's subconscious. Because, four feet from the exit, a zip tied bar-back should have been lying on the floor.

  But he wasn't.

  Tom had gone.

  Chapter Three

  Tom Lewis had been in Charlotte for six months, working at Donny's for four of them. He rented a cheap, clean, one-bedroom apartment over an antique store where the items on sale were around the same age as the couple who ran it. The bell announcing customers rarely rang, and the street, a quarter-mile north of the university campus, was quiet enough that—every Sunday morning—Tom heard the amens and hallelujahs from the church on the corner.

  The walk to Donny's Bar took twenty-five minutes. Tom couldn't drive, but he enjoyed walking. Jimmy Blue could drive. Tom sometimes dreamed his hands were on the wheel, engine roaring and tyres screaming, buildings flashing by on either side.

  He saw Blue sometimes, during the walk home after late shifts at the bar. At night, small groups lingered on street corners, or in the shadows, figures in hoods laughing, shouting, drinking. Sometimes they went quiet when he passed on the far side of the street; a bad kind of quiet. Twice, strangers followed him for a while, but, as they came closer, so did Jimmy Blue, a man made of dark smoke becoming solid, matching Tom's footsteps stride for stride, coming alongside. Some instinct made his pursuers lose interest. And Blue dissolved as if he'd never been there.

  Tom liked Charlotte. He liked the contrast between the frenetic shops, bars, business, and eateries of uptown, and the quieter, poorer neighbourhoods less than a mile outside its perimeter. He liked the parks, where he watched dog walkers, keeping treats in his pockets for any friendly canines who said hello. He liked to walk around North Davidson, where an unofficial competition ran between buildings vying to be the most colourful. Everyone called North Davidson NoDa, which was easy for Tom to remember.

  Mostly, Tom liked Charlotte because people were often kind to him, waiting patiently while he struggled to find words in cafes, stores, or on the train.

  As the weeks passed, Jimmy Blue kept his distance. Tom's anxiety about this unfamiliar city, in a country he'd only ever visited before, faded. One side of his life—the side Blue took care of—became more dreamlike with every passing day.

  It was Tom's turn now. Tom's chance to live. Last summer in London, after years of preparation, Jimmy Blue had taken bloody revenge on those who killed Tom's parents, and—when the authorities closed in—he had fled Great Britain for America. A fresh start, where no one knew him. Jimmy stayed in the shadows in Charlotte. Maybe he would stay there forever.

  Tom's favourite place in Charlotte wasn't the bustling centre, the trendy arts district, or any of the parks. It was Donny's Bar. He'd known right away that he'd like it. Right from the moment he'd walked in with the help wanted tear-off in his hand. He couldn't read it, but Iris—who ran the bakery across the street—had read it to him, and directed him to the bar.

  Donny had been unloading crates of beer bottles from the back of a truck. Tom handed him the tear-off, and started lifting crates, three at a time. Donny's smile had broadened. Ten minutes later, Tom had a job as a bar-back, a title which held no meaning until Don explained it.

  Although Tom didn't need money, he found he needed work. He gained satisfaction from completing tasks, such as mopping floors, changing kegs, or wiping tables. He liked being around people if they didn't engage with him much. Which made bar-back a good fit. Used to being stared at because of his size, or because of the bandanas he wore to cover the bullet scars on his bald head, Tom found that bar-backs were granted the power of invisibility. As long as he held one of the magical items—glass holder, brush, or trash bag—he could move through Donny's unnoticed, even at its most crowded.

  He had his job, his apartment, and he had the city. Tom didn't remember how it felt to be happy, but he suspected it might be like this.

  Then someone pointed a gun at Tina, another pulled a knife on Donny, and Tom knew it was all about to be taken away.

  Chapter Four

  When Tom opened the emergency exit and caught the reflected light flash from the polished baseball bat as it swung for his head, he didn't know if the instant reaction was his or Jimmy Blue's. But his pivot meant the bat caught the back of his head and neck, rather than his face.

  It still hurt, though, rattling his teeth, and the smack echoed in his skull as he pitched forward, shuffled a few steps before dropping, and lay still.

  A tear fell from Tom's left eye onto the swept wooden floor. The teardrop filled most of his field of vision, a salt-water lake in the mountain-range shadow of his forehead.

  When the man kneeled on his back, forcing his hands behind him, Tom stayed limp. He watched the lake, fascinated. From the depths, dark smoke coiled as if—in defiance of natural laws—an underwater fire had been lit and now burned fiercely. The tendrils of smoke coalesced into dark heavy clouds, a threatening weather system, ris
ing. As if the lake reflected a gathering storm. No, that wasn't it. The storm came from the darkness hidden far beneath the lake's surface.

  As the man pulled first one zip tie, then another tight, forcing his wrists together, Tom witnessed the dark clouds rise, entering his body through his eyes, nose, and mouth. It flowed into his pores, a rush of power, knowledge, purpose, and rage.

  The dark clouds swept Tom away, a microscopic figure caught in a storm, subsumed by it.

  It was all over in seconds. Tom was gone. Jimmy Blue was back.

  Blue half-opened his right eye. Turned his head an inch.

  Four hostiles. One had Tina. Two stood behind the bar with Don. Three still held the baseball bat. Four—with Don's shotgun—stood closest, twelve to fifteen feet away, his back towards Blue.

  Remaining motionless, Jimmy waited for his moment. It came when hostile one put a hand on Tina, provoking Don. Everyone turned towards the bar owner.

  Blue moved fast, bringing his knees up under his body, his head staying on the floor. He lifted his arms back and up, relaxing his shoulder to gain an extra inch. He pulled his hands apart to tighten the zip tie, the plastic cutting into his flesh. Then he brought his hands down fast, onto the small of his back. Both ties gave way with a snap.

  Blue rolled onto his front, raising himself onto the tips of his fingers and toes of his sneakers. He exited the main bar using a simian all-fours lope that looked ridiculous, but was very effective. He stayed low, and the speed of his progress meant, if anyone had looked, they would have had 2.56 seconds to witness his escape.

  Once out of sight, Blue ran for the bar-back door leading to the storerooms, kitchen, and office. Once inside, he made for the fuse box on the wall. An archway led to the bar and the armed men.

  He removed the cover and flipped the master power switch. Everything went dark. Blue prised out every fuse, throwing them in the trash. Don's heavy-duty flashlight hung on a hook next to the fusebox. Blue retraced his route to the bar, the flashlight solid and heavy in his hand.