Toxic Rain

Despite never having set foot in the place, Mac struts into the joint as one who belongs. The leather of his riding boots weathered from use despite religious applications of boot-grease, the heels worn down at a jaunty angle, his denim jeans shining in more places than not. Yet, his dress is the least noticeable of his features. Beneath the threadbare, plaid-cotton work shirt can be seen the powerful, rippling muscles and broad shoulders of a man that takes what he wants and is rarely crossed without delivering substantial consequences in return.

Christened George McClain, friends and acquaintances simply know him as Mac. A man’s man, he is ruggedly handsome with a strong jaw line now covered with a brash stippling of beard. His eyes are of the sharpest blue that can cause a woman’s heart to flutter with just the merest of glances. Yet, his outward appearance is balanced with an unwavering set of morals that he lives by, though most righteous men would call them questionable at best.

Although he appears intimidating to the uninitiated, to those that know him on a more intimate level, his appearance and demeanor are reassuring and comforting. Mac doesn’t have a mean bone in his rugged frame and he harbors no remorse for doing to those that need doing to. And he does it so well!

His fees are high and yet he rarely takes on jobs that pay. Most cases that come his way are usually nothing more than helping someone that can’t help themselves for whatever reason. If asked, he would argue to the bitter end that it’s simply coincidence that the majority of his pro bono cases involve coming to the defense of women, despite knowing that a factual accounting of his history would almost certainly prove that most of his clients are desperate, beautiful women.

But that’s not why he’s working late this night in a seedier part of town located down on the waterfront adjacent to the docks. A night when the sky and anything further than twenty feet from your face is completely obliterated by dense clouds of sea mist rolling in off the black water. No, tonight Mac is venturing into the longshoremen’s hangout in this rougher part of town because he is collecting monies that are owed.

The money isn’t owed to him personally. If it were, he would be handling this quite differently. In fact, his fee for this deed was paid in advance by a relatively new client that came highly recommended to him by a questionable source. And right from the get-go, Mac suspected that his prospective new client was almost too trusting, too willing to believe in his abilities and guarantees to bring the transaction to a fruitful conclusion without really knowing how Mac worked. And yet, despite Mac’s uneasiness, he took the job and the immediate payment that the man offered in the form of a thick wad of cash tucked nicely into a brown paper bag. It never dawned on him that if the man had this kind of cash, did he really need the money that he’d hired Mac to collect?

But with his whirly bird grounded and in need of repairs after running it hard during the performance of another assignment, he was desperate for the cash money that he needed to get the parts to fix it. This quick and easy assignment had put him back in the black financially which made a few of his other friends and associates equally pleased, not the least of which is his closest friend and business partner, Larry. Until he can repair his own bird, he’d been borrowing Larry’s identical helicopter and although they are tight, Mac couldn’t help feeling a small amount of resentment growing on Larry’s part. Of course, he can’t blame Larry for feeling the way he does. After all, Larry doesn’t like being grounded any more than he does.

And then, it hasn’t helped any that jobs have been slow in coming for a while. Not to mention that their combined tab at the pub where they spend most of their time whiling away the hours with a deck of cards and a bottle of rum was also growing. The pub’s new owner mentions the tab with growing frequency and concern. And even though Mac never stiffed anyone on a debt before, his unemployment combined with his increasing alcohol consumption and steadily declining hygiene are reasons for concern and not just with the people to which he is indebted, but also his friends.

***

Now that you know my recent history and the reason for my being here, let’s get on with the story, shall we? I’ll try to stick to the facts and not brag, but no promises. Hope you enjoy.

Prologue

Shifting my eyes from one side to the other, I quickly take in the entire scene within the dreary confines of the smoke-filled space. In my quick glance, I pegged the patrons and categorized the ones to be wary of as well as the ones that will probably run for the door if and when trouble starts. Though I expect this job to be a cakewalk, one should always know from which direction trouble is likely to come.

The floors are rough-hewn pine, the finish worn away from many years of being subject to the salt laden air spilling in through the tattered and ill-fitting double-winged doors. There is also much evidence of neglect from spilled beer, not to mention the occasional spew of vomit mixed with soggy chewing tobacco, spilt blood and rotting peanut shells.

The lighting is dim as it comes from nothing more than the effervescence of neon signs advertising their products along the rear of the bar and in the two windows facing out on the street. This lack of light suits me just fine as it allows me to move less conspicuously toward my quarry whom is sitting at a table alone, his back conspicuously facing toward the door as if he is more interested in watching something or someone at the bar.

As I move toward him, I notice that the man is nursing a bottle of light-yellow beer. Indeed, it’s even sporting a slice of fruit which has sunk to the bottom in much the same way as the man’s spirit appears to have. His rounded shoulders are slumped forward, his skinny forearms resting on the tabletop as if in defeat. Don’t people realize that the hype of drinking a beer with fruit is just that, hype? True escape can only come in the form of drunken bliss and not simply through the act of drinking a so-called ‘hip’ drink.

Being a self-proclaimed authority on drinking and being drunk, the only way I would stoop to such a sissy drink is if I were dying of thirst in the middle of a desert, and then I’d still take pause. My first choice of drink is rum. But not just any rum. Only the finest that the West Indies knows how to produce is fit enough for this palette. And although I realize my penchant for rum is a weakness, in this shady world of criminals, lowlifes, and other undesirables, it seems like a very insignificant crutch to lean on and it hasn’t let me down yet, despite what my friends say.

Sliding onto the seat across from the man, I look into the guy’s bloodshot eyes and study them closely as they slowly come to focus on me. Judging from his sluggish reaction to my sudden appearance, it’s obvious that he’s been here for some time and that the bottle currently in front of him isn’t his first by a long shot.

Waiting patiently, I watch while the guy’s eyes continue clearing and recognition registers in the depths of his alcohol numbed mind. His words slurring, he asks, What do you want?

You know why I’m here, I say softly, not wanting to draw the attention of the bartender or the single waitress perched on a stool across from the bartender, her shapely backside stretching the seams of a short white skirt and a dense clump of blonde curls tied up tightly on the back of her head.

I don’t have it, he mumbles, his eyes slipping away from mine and sliding back toward the warm beer.

Having lived on both sides of the bottle, I immediately realize that I’m being deceived by the guy and that the drunken act is nothing more than that, an act! His eyes gave him away the minute they focused on something behind me. The bloodshot appearance is nothing more than a self-inflicted irritant.

Moving quickly, I jump to my feet while simultaneously lifting the table and driving it into him with enough force to knock him over backwards, the beer bottle and a glass ashtray crashing to the scarred wooden floor.

Expecting trouble from the barkeep, I spin around to face him and not a moment too soon. Entering the area behind the bar through a small door that appears to be little more than a storage locker are two men in dark suits. The first is a big man, his shoulders every bit as wide as the door frame. The smaller of the two is already reaching beyond his breast pocket for the weapon concealed there in a shoulder harness at the same time that the big man grabs hold of the bar to pull himself over. There is no mistaking their intentions or who their attention is focused on.

This is much more than I was anticipating. The job wasn’t supposed to be anything more than the collection of an outstanding gambling debt. No one said anything about gunplay or thugs in three-piece suits!

With my own firearm tucked away securely in the left saddlebag of my ’58 Road Rocket, I have no choice but to dive for cover, quickly putting another table between myself and the small man behind the bar who is now waving around a gun that looks huge in his smallish hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the bartender’s frantic run for the side door at the end of the bar and feel a moment of relief in knowing that he isn’t a part of this. That leaves the mark and two assailants.

The waitress is also making a dash for the same door the bartender is ducking through but on the nearer side of the bar to me. She pauses almost imperceptibly and glances in my direction as if concerned for my wellbeing. For just the briefest of moments, our eyes meet and I’m both surprised by her obvious lack of fear and her strikingly beautiful features. Silhouetted against the darker wood of the bar, it doesn’t escape my notice that she creates quite a fetching profile.

Like the bartender, she appears only interested in self-preservation and is moving out of the way so as not to become a statistic. But unlike me, she is moving toward the side door while I’m still trying to figure out how I’m going to reach the main door and at the same time keep the mark with me until I can collect the debt that I was hired to collect. Above all else, the job comes first!

Jumping up and over the heavy wooden table that I was using for cover, I hit the floor rolling, my right hand locking around the hilt of a 6-inch boot-knife. Landing on the balls of my feet, I adjust the knife in my hand for a quick throw. Unless the mark hiding under the table or the big ape climbing over the bar draws a weapon, my primary threat is the small man in the suit with the big gun.

Rising into a crouched position, my feet planted firmly on the rough pine floor and my arm raised into a throwing position, I recognize the little man’s weapon as a Glock 9-MM, a weapon capable of delivering 14 high velocity rounds in a matter of seconds. Drawing back to throw, I’m surprised and caught off guard when the gun suddenly discharges even though it isn’t aimed at anything in particular which includes me. The shot lights up the bar like a bolt of lightning on a dark and stormy night followed by a large cloud of blue smoke and the pungent odor of burnt cordite.

It takes me less than a second to realize that in the little man’s excitement, he accidently squeezed the trigger while waving the gun around for dramatic effect, the slug ripping through the expensive fabric of his suit coat and lodging in the big man’s beefy right arm just as he propels himself off the bar-top.

The burning gunpowder spewed from the barrel sets the small man’s suit on fire and he starts beating crazily at his upper chest, the gun flailing about wildly in his right hand while the big man’s grip on the bar-top is broken by the impact of the slug, his heavy bulk crashing ungracefully toward the plank flooring like a duck shot in flight.

Momentarily frozen by the comedy of errors, I quickly regain my wits and turn toward the man on the floor beneath the upturned table. Having watched the same scene unfold before him as I have, the man is hurriedly scrambling away on his hands and knees, trying desperately to reach the front doors so he can make his escape before I realize he’s on the move or the little guy accidently fires off another errant round in his frantic effort to put out his flaming suit.

Slipping the knife back in my boot, I pick up a wooden chair and smash it against the floor, breaking one of the wooden legs free so that I can use it as a club. In three long strides, I’m between the man on the floor and the front doors. Looking up, he realizes that his escape route has been cut off and fear turns him into a slobbering fool, breaking out in a rambling chorus of begging and whining for mercy.

After tapping him lightly on the forehead with the club to get his attention and to shut him up, I order him to his feet while simultaneously grabbing his shirt and assisting him to keep him from falling back down.

Shaking and unsteady with fear, the man leans precariously against a table for support, his hands splayed on the tabletop. I already told you, I don’t have it, he whines, his voice on the verge of cracking.

I don’t believe you, I firmly reply, slamming the chair leg down on the tabletop and smashing his little pinky. We are quickly running out of time and I’m not in the mood to play games with dirtballs.

Stunned, the man stares down at his mutilated little finger in disbelief, the pain not quite registering through the damaged nerve endings as blood spurts forth with each frantic beat of his heart.

Glancing at the bar, I make a quick mental note of what the two in suits are up to. The little weasel of a man has dropped the gun in the excitement of beating out the flare up on his chest while the big oaf is sitting on the floor in front of the bar with his legs splayed out before him while holding his injured arm against his chest in agony and trying to grasp the fact that his own partner shot him.

With the numbness swiftly dissipating and feeling the onset of pain from his mangled finger, the man cries out in anguish, his voice trembling with hurt and fear as he agrees, All right, all right, just don’t hurt me anymore.

Where is it? I coolly demand while lifting the chair leg for another strike. Only this time, I’m threatening his head.

When the man fails to answer fast enough for my satisfaction, I plant the splintered end of the chair leg against his forehead and press it against him, forcing his face upward until our eyes meet below the stick of wood. Speaking slowly and articulating each syllable as if trying to communicate with a slow child, I ask, Do I need to repeat myself?

No, no! Please, don’t hurt me anymore. I don’t have it on me, but I can take you to it. I swear. Just don’t hurt me anymore, he pleads.

Slowly, I relinquish the pressure against his forehead with the chair leg until he slumps forward. For a moment, he staggers unsteadily on his feet before regaining his balance. Cradling his injured hand in the other, he pleads again, Please, I’ve had enough. I’ll take you to it, just don’t hurt me anymore.

Glancing toward the bar, I realize that if I don’t get a move on it soon, the two thugs are liable to regain their composure and readdress their assault toward me. For the moment, they are too consumed with their own plight to pay any attention to anything else, but that could change at any moment.

Looking toward the doors and seeing the pathway clear, I order the man to lead the way while holding the chair leg in a threatening manner. He pauses only briefly to glance back at the bar. When he doesn’t see any help forthcoming, he stumbles toward the door, the chair leg prodding him to keep moving.

I wasn’t prepared for this turn of events and silently curse myself for not having thought it through to this conclusion. I can’t very well make the man ride on the rear of the bike and yet, I can’t just abandon the bike either. Not because I’m afraid of something happening to it, but more so because it can be traced directly back to me by both the police and any other interested parties.

Yeah, I think grimly, silently chastising myself. You, didn’t think this one through at all. Maybe my friends are right to be worried about me. Maybe I am hitting the rum a little too hard. I should have done more research on this new client instead of grabbing up the bag of money without asking any questions. Am I really so desperate? Damn it all to Hell.

The arrival of men with guns wearing suits means there’s a definite possibility that there are other interested parties involved here besides my client. It would probably be prudent to find out who the other players are before I get himself in any deeper.

But what do I do now? If I instruct the man to drive his own vehicle, there is no way I can keep a short leash on him. Without a doubt the guy has probably figured out that I don’t have a gun on me. So what’s to stop him from making a run for it? Yeah, I could surprise the guy and shoot out his tires which will draw even more unwanted attention. And even then, I’m still in the same predicament that I am now.

I suppose I could retrieve my gun and brandish it in front of him before I let him drive off, hoping to intimidate him into doing what I ask. But the guy probably isn’t thinking too clearly right now and will probably just make a break for it anyway. What then?

So how do I force the man to take me to the money without leaving the bike behind? And although the fact that a prized bottle of West Indies rum lies vulnerable in the saddlebags, the thought of leaving it behind weighing briefly on my mind, I don’t let it distract me.

Standing in the thick swirling fog just outside the doors, the deserted street glistening wetly in the dark from the glare of well-spaced street lamps, I’m trying to decide my next move when the waitress from the bar suddenly materializes out of the mist. For a brief moment, I all but forget the situation I’m in and become completely absorbed by the confident grace and swing of her hips as she strides toward me.

Although we’d made fleeting eye contact earlier in the bar, in the dim and hazy light I hadn’t realized the extent of either her beauty or her fine, lithesome physique. Her blonde hair, a mass of tight curls made even tighter by the moisture-laden air is tied back with a narrow band of white material. But the headband isn’t the part of the ensemble that draws my attention. There is also the tight fitting blouse accentuating her firm, full breasts and the tighter fitting, short white skirt. Her hips are well defined with a shapely ass that moves seductively on the high end of a beautiful pair of muscular thighs and firm calves climbing out of dirty white sneakers that she obviously wears for comfort. Even under the circumstances I currently find myself, I’m aware of a growing discomfort in the front of my jeans.

Leaning unsteadily against the dark sedan that he’d driven to the bar, the man realizes my dilemma and turns a laughing smirk toward me, the pain in his left hand having subsided to a dull throb. Now whatcha gonna do, hotshot? he spits, feeling control over his destiny returning and with it an inflated sense of courage.

He’s gonna follow us on his bike, Dipshit, the woman boldly states, not taking her eyes off me.

Using a police move that I immediately recognize, she grabs the man’s left arm and twists it up behind his back, the new pain eliciting a sharp protest that she immediately cuts off with even greater pressure.

Give me your belt and I’ll tie him into the back seat, she orders authoritatively, sizing me up with an approving look as though I’m nothing more than a side of beef with potential.

Watching her with growing interest and desire, I quickly do as she requests, pausing only briefly when handing her the item and asking, Why should I trust you?

It appears to me, you don’t really have much choice, she says with a wink, accepting the proffered belt and fastening it around the man’s wrists behind his back before looping it through the guy’s own belt and clasping the buckle to keep it tight.

I notice that the little finger is still bleeding, the gelatinous red liquid hiding the mangled and discolored flesh. I’d actually done more damage than I’d intended, but it got the guy’s attention and that was after all my main intention.

Rummaging through the man’s pockets, she retrieves the keys to the sedan as well as his wallet. Let’s get out of here before those two goons inside realize they can still shoot, she says with a smile, enjoying the fact that she’s in control for the moment and holding the upper hand. Someone has probably called the cops too, she adds.

Smiling back at her, I open the rear door and roughly force the man into the back seat before giving her another thorough going over. She’s not the only one that can appraise a fine cut of beef.

With each look I give her, she appears even better looking. With a knowing smile, she slowly turns away from me as if in the middle of making up her mind about something and then suddenly picks up the tempo as if having come to a decision. Moving fast, she hurries around the front of the car to the driver’s door and then stops. Staring after her, I feel a tightening in my chest and sexual desire welling up in my loins.

Standing on the street, she hesitates at the door and looks back at me over the hood. Although I sense she is reading my amoral thoughts, she throws me a quizzical smile and asks, What is it? Are you coming or not?

Before I can answer, she flings open the door and climbs in behind the wheel. For just the briefest of moments, I would have sworn she winked at me. But then I just as quickly doubt what I’d seen and blame it on the mist blurring my vision.

Hurriedly, I move toward my bike, the sound of the sedan’s engine roaring to life even before I reach it. As I kick the old Beazer over, the sedan’s rear wheels break loose on the pavement and hum against the mist-slicked surface. I’m releasing the clutch and accelerating at the same time as the tires on the sedan find purchase on the wet surface and rockets forward. Close on her tail, we shoot away down the street in a roar of engines and damp exhaust fumes. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of the door just beginning to open and then we are past it and hanging a sharp left at the first cross street, the car in front of me kicking up a dampening spray of mist from the pavement and forcing me to squint my eyes almost shut against it just to keep her tail lights in sight.

We travel at a dangerous rate of speed for several blocks, first shooting up one street and then down another. After several more zigs and zags in which she seems familiar with the streets as she never goes up any blind alleys, the sedan suddenly brakes hard and swerves down a narrow side street. The waterfront area is now well behind us and we are in a district of old warehouses and dilapidated factories that are no longer producing anything but vermin.

Close on the heels of the sedan, I am surprised when it suddenly skids to a halt and the blonde jumps out of the driver’s side door and ducks for cover behind an old steel dumpster, long since left and forgotten in this dark and dreary portal of abandonment.

Braking hard, I slide the rear end of the bike to the right and drag my left foot to maintain my balance and stay upright on the wet surface. The inside of the sedan flashes brightly as if someone is taking pictures with a flash. Two bright flashes are quickly followed by a third, highlighting the interior of the vehicle and silhouetting the man in the back seat. He is in an upright position, his hands no longer secured behind him as he turns and brings what appears to be a small handgun to bear on me.

Without thinking, I let the bike drop beneath me and ride it down to the pavement, falling below his line of vision through the side window of the car. Sparks fly from the foot peg and handle grip as they careen along the coarse pavement, their individual rubber protectors immediately chewed away by the rough asphalt surface.

Instinctively, I reach into the saddlebag on the high side of the downed machine and withdraw several items even before she has come to a final resting place. Among the items is my favored 357-magnum handgun. Protected from the gunman in the rear seat of the sedan by the bulk of the trunk, I raise the gun in my right hand and snap off three shots in rapid succession, taking out the rear window of the sedan while never raising my head high enough to see if I’m hitting anything within it or not or even if the guy is even still in it. It isn’t my intention to kill the bastard, I just want him to return fire, drawing his attention away from the girl hiding behind the dumpster.

It works! Two more shots ricochet off the hood followed immediately by the click-click-click of a hammer striking spent shell casings.

Almost casually, I rise to my full height of six feet four inches and look into the smoke-filled interior of the sedan through the vacant rear window, my magnum leveled at the outline of the man’s head in the murky shadows. When he sees me looking down the snub-nosed barrel of my weapon, he turns toward the door and grasps frantically for the handle in a wild attempt to run for it.

You set one foot outside that car and I swear to God, you’re a dead man, I say with conviction.

In a show of defeat, he slumps back against the rear seat and sits in silence. You can come out from behind that dumpster, I say softly, moving around the rear of the car and putting myself between it and the dumpster.

When there isn’t any answer, my heart begins to race as thoughts of the worst possible scenarios suddenly bloom and race through the forefront of my mind, the most obvious being that she has taken a bullet. Stay put! I angrily order the man sitting silently in the rear seat. Or by God, I’ll put a bullet through your damned head.

With a racing heart, my breath held tightly in my chest, I lower my weapon and dart around to the side of the dumpster, already convinced that I’m going to find her in a pool of her own blood.

Instead, she is lying on her side and stirring as if coming out of a deep sleep. She turns toward me as I drop down on my knees and gently take her upper body in my hands and raise her head and shoulders up to my lap. There is a small trickle of blood running down the side of her face from a gash on her temple, but no evidence of a bullet wound.

Without thinking, I rip half the sleeve from my left arm and tenderly dab at the source of the blood. She winces involuntarily at my touch and I feel her pain as if it is my own. Are you alright? Can you hear me? I asked nervously, afraid that she won’t be able to answer me.

Stirring from the sound of my voice, she blinks a few times, trying to focus on my face. Mac? Is that you? she stutters, her voice growing stronger with each word.

Taken aback, I tense for a moment before asking the obvious, How do you know me?

It’s a long story. I’ll explain later after we get that dirtball to tell us where he stashed it. She hesitates for a moment, squeezing her eyes shut against the pain in her head and then looks at me and adds with a forced smile, Name’s Edna, but you can just call me Eddy, Eddy Lotto.

I’m going to hold you to that explanation, Eddy. But you’re right, first things first.

Although I desperately need to know what is going on, I’m aware of a rising anger over the growing possibility that I’d been used unwittingly in someone else’s scheme, a scheme that almost got me killed. At the very least it got my bike messed up. But just looking at her lying in my arms, her hair disheveled with blood smeared down the side of her face, there’s no way I can stay angry. She looks so helpless and in need of succor that my heart automatically goes out to her with empathy and concern, even if she weren’t so damned hot looking.

Can you stand? I gently inquire, my voice soft with kindness and concern.

Yeah, I’ll be fine, she answers gruffly, trying to pull free of my support. I must have hit my head when I dove for cover behind this trash bin.

Wanting to hold on to her for as long as I can, yet feeling self-conscious for feeling that way toward someone I’d just met. Before letting go of her, I stand up and help her to her feet. When she wobbles and reaches out to steady herself, I grab her firmly beneath the arms and guide her to the front of the car where she reaches out to steady herself before turning around and leaning back against the grill with her arms down and her hands on the hood behind her.

For a long moment, she balances unsteadily on her feet using the car for a crutch and then raises her eyes to mine and with a rasp in her speech says, You can let go of me now.

Without realizing it, I was still holding her on either side of her chest with my thumbs pressed firmly against the flesh of her breasts. I’m sorry, I stammer embarrassedly, jerking my hands away and then holding them self-consciously.

Looking away before she can see the rising color in my face, I glance through the windshield and note that the man is still sitting slumped down and silent in the rear seat. All earlier signs of spit and fire having drained from him. Sit tight, I say softly, walking around to the driver’s side of the sedan and pulling the rear door open. Get out of there! I brusquely order the man. When he doesn’t move fast enough, I reach