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Authors: John Silver
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moaned, on the shore of unconsciousness, his head hanging.
Vlad leaned down in front of Martin and held Martin's head up by the chin.
"Will you ever come near my club again?" said Vlad
"No," whispered Martin, weeping. "Never. Never. I swear."
Vlad pulled back his hand and Martin's head dropped. He walked behind Martin.
"I don't believe you," he said.
Vlad picked up a plastic two liter pop bottle filled with gasoline and poured half of it on Martin and the rest on the dry wooden floor around him. Martin's head popped up. He choked on the gasoline and flailed his head. The gasoline brought the burning, electric pain back in his hands.
Vlad opened a book of matches, lit them, and threw them at Martin's feet. The gas instantly ignited, covering Martin in an orange fireball. Martin screamed, struggled in the chair, bubbled, then blackened and went still. The old floorboards caught fire and quickly spread. Vlad walked down the stairs, crushing broken hypodermic needles under his boots and strolled out the door. He got in the passenger's seat of the Taurus and nodded to the bouncer at the wheel. Great car for these little projects. So many on the road, and they all look alike. The bouncer and Vlad drove away, smoke now pouring from the windowless house.
Over eighty thousand abandoned houses in this city. Pick one, do your work, burn it down. No one snitches.
Chapter 11
Chris Picks Up a Fare
Chris sat in the limo in the parking lot by the RiverWalk, in view of the carousel, Ceasar's Casino on the Windsor side and the Renaissance Center on the right. It wasn't really a limo, but a bubbly black Lincoln Town Car. Chris loosened his tie. He didn't mind wearing the chauffer's suit, simple and black, but he hated the hat that the limo company made him wear. And he also had to shave.
The parking lot was empty and there wasn't much business this time of morning, which Chris didn't mind. He looked at the idle carousel and saw a solitary black guy fishing, right where the RiverWalk ended and the State Park began. Die hard. Some guys fish no matter what time of year or weather. Probably fishing for Muskie. Chris saw the guy set his jig and deftly cast it in the water. He obviously knew how to fish.
A freighter slipped by going upstream toward Lake St. Claire. A couple more months and the river would be filled with giant ice floes, jammed together like giant blue-green pieces of mismatched linoleum.
A siren sounded in the distance. Chris half smiled. One thing about Detroit, there were always sirens, as constant as the river current. He got out of the Town Car, leaned against the front left fender and lit a cigarette. Against the rules, but fuck it.
He took a drag off the cigarette and saw a large, white yacht emerge from the Belle Isle shipping channel. Just like the TradeWind, a Hatteras Convertible. White and sleek, but in a classic way. Flying bridge, easily rigged for fishing or cruising. Chris figured it to be a fifty two- same length as the TradeWind. He stared at the boat as it passed and thought he better call the marina this week to see if anyone inquired about the TradeWind. Sure, there were a lot of boats available, but this one stuck to him. Perfect spot, the little Key Cove Marina, small and personal. Chris felt lucky the guy that owned the boat liked him and said that he would hold off selling it and give Chris first shot. He said Chris could take over his steady Marlin charter, too. Introduce him to his steady clients. It was perfect.
He could live on the boat, in the smaller state room and leave the main quarters for the clients if they stayed out overnight. A great little galley, too. He'd be done with this life, the limo, Eddie's chop shop, and Detroit. Problem was, the guy who owned the TradeWind was getting ready to retire, six months maybe, and as Chris figured it, he needed at least another year to come up with the rest of the cash. He watched the Hatteras motor downriver with the current, passing in
Vlad leaned down in front of Martin and held Martin's head up by the chin.
"Will you ever come near my club again?" said Vlad
"No," whispered Martin, weeping. "Never. Never. I swear."
Vlad pulled back his hand and Martin's head dropped. He walked behind Martin.
"I don't believe you," he said.
Vlad picked up a plastic two liter pop bottle filled with gasoline and poured half of it on Martin and the rest on the dry wooden floor around him. Martin's head popped up. He choked on the gasoline and flailed his head. The gasoline brought the burning, electric pain back in his hands.
Vlad opened a book of matches, lit them, and threw them at Martin's feet. The gas instantly ignited, covering Martin in an orange fireball. Martin screamed, struggled in the chair, bubbled, then blackened and went still. The old floorboards caught fire and quickly spread. Vlad walked down the stairs, crushing broken hypodermic needles under his boots and strolled out the door. He got in the passenger's seat of the Taurus and nodded to the bouncer at the wheel. Great car for these little projects. So many on the road, and they all look alike. The bouncer and Vlad drove away, smoke now pouring from the windowless house.
Over eighty thousand abandoned houses in this city. Pick one, do your work, burn it down. No one snitches.
Chapter 11
Chris Picks Up a Fare
Chris sat in the limo in the parking lot by the RiverWalk, in view of the carousel, Ceasar's Casino on the Windsor side and the Renaissance Center on the right. It wasn't really a limo, but a bubbly black Lincoln Town Car. Chris loosened his tie. He didn't mind wearing the chauffer's suit, simple and black, but he hated the hat that the limo company made him wear. And he also had to shave.
The parking lot was empty and there wasn't much business this time of morning, which Chris didn't mind. He looked at the idle carousel and saw a solitary black guy fishing, right where the RiverWalk ended and the State Park began. Die hard. Some guys fish no matter what time of year or weather. Probably fishing for Muskie. Chris saw the guy set his jig and deftly cast it in the water. He obviously knew how to fish.
A freighter slipped by going upstream toward Lake St. Claire. A couple more months and the river would be filled with giant ice floes, jammed together like giant blue-green pieces of mismatched linoleum.
A siren sounded in the distance. Chris half smiled. One thing about Detroit, there were always sirens, as constant as the river current. He got out of the Town Car, leaned against the front left fender and lit a cigarette. Against the rules, but fuck it.
He took a drag off the cigarette and saw a large, white yacht emerge from the Belle Isle shipping channel. Just like the TradeWind, a Hatteras Convertible. White and sleek, but in a classic way. Flying bridge, easily rigged for fishing or cruising. Chris figured it to be a fifty two- same length as the TradeWind. He stared at the boat as it passed and thought he better call the marina this week to see if anyone inquired about the TradeWind. Sure, there were a lot of boats available, but this one stuck to him. Perfect spot, the little Key Cove Marina, small and personal. Chris felt lucky the guy that owned the boat liked him and said that he would hold off selling it and give Chris first shot. He said Chris could take over his steady Marlin charter, too. Introduce him to his steady clients. It was perfect.
He could live on the boat, in the smaller state room and leave the main quarters for the clients if they stayed out overnight. A great little galley, too. He'd be done with this life, the limo, Eddie's chop shop, and Detroit. Problem was, the guy who owned the TradeWind was getting ready to retire, six months maybe, and as Chris figured it, he needed at least another year to come up with the rest of the cash. He watched the Hatteras motor downriver with the current, passing in
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