Deep Waters - Mexican Shakedown

I said that I was good to go. I was lying through my teeth.

On the road into Newburyport I kept the car mainly on the road. Mainly. But for the intervention of Winston’s friend Boothe I would have crashed the Firebird more than several times before hitting the middle of the ‘Port.

The first distraction was our names.

‘Winston tells me that you’re a Whateley’ said Boothe. He was huddled in the front seat along from me, trying to be inconspicuous.

I darted a squint-eyed stare at him, taking in his lank hair, pimply face and black Rush 2112 t-shirt, and he corrected my steering with an unobtrusive sleight of his hand.

‘Not a Whateley,’ I slurred, ‘I’m a Waite. We’re Yorkshiremen, came here to Marblehead; moved to Innsmouth on Obed Marsh’s say-so. We’re the strong-arm of the Marsh call-to arms. We ain’t no country wizards.’

‘Oh,’ he said, correcting the wheel, ‘I was misinformed.’

‘You know about the Whateleys, then?’ Winston’s voice rolled over from the back seat.

‘Enough to stay away.’ I answered. ‘What are you doing back there?’

Winston had disassembled a handgun on my back seat and was in the process of putting it back in working order and loading it.

‘Hey! Am I about to get into something untoward?’ I slurred.

‘Most likely,’ was Winston’s response, as he picked up the firearm and spun the barrel.

I growled and slumped back down behind the wheel which, I noticed, Boothe had kept accurately aligned on the available road space.

‘Well, thanks for the heads-up,’ I growled, taking command of the wheel while Boothe cowered away from me. The first few buildings of Newburyport proper flashed by us in the headlights: ‘Where’re we headed?’

‘Head into the town centre and turn right,’ was the answer.

I had been braking steadily, amazed at the reading on the dial, and executed a smooth right hand-brake turn north out of the settlement. We began to lose buildings as our speed dropped.

‘You wanna tell me when we’re nearby?’ I said.

Winston threw himself onto the back of the front seat. ‘That’s it,’ he said pointing forwards, ‘the place with the Mexican.’

I braked. The headlights had picked out the shape of a Mexican asleep under his sombrero, done in painted concrete, next to the letter-box of a residence.

‘Well, at least your contacts are tasteful,’ I said braking and pulling in to the kerb.

‘Taste isn’t something I’m banking on,’ he said, spinning the barrel on his revolver once more, ‘you ready, Boothe?’

I slid a glance along to the person in question: he quirked both thumbs upwards in the universal ‘good to go’ expression, and greased his way out of the car.

The front door of our building had opened and several people had emerged from within. I stepped out of the car: If I was supposed to be the muscle, I figured I should be there for the accounting. Apparently, I didn’t disappoint.

‘Thumbs up’ was also the reaction from the quartet of individuals who emerged from the house onto the front lawn.

‘David Coverdale, est-ce?’ said the smallest of the people we were here to see, pointing a gold-decked finger at me.

Winston laughed uproariously. ‘No, en absoluto,’ he said, ‘No tienes que preocuparte por él.’

I thanked the Powers for Winston’s performance in Spanish class. I had no idea what was going on.

All four guys were Latinos; all four had slicked-back hair and handlebar moustaches; and all of them wore flared jeans and loud polyester shirts. Apart from the range in height and weight, they might have been made with the same cookie cutter. The little guy was obviously in charge.

‘Haremos el negocio adentro, pero no él. Es un extraño,’ he barked. Winston clapped me on the shoulder.

‘You have no idea,’ he grinned. To me he said, ‘you’ll have to park it out here, B. They’re a bit wary of people they haven’t met before.’ To the little guy he said, ‘Bien por mi!’

The biggest of the mustachios was giving me the hairy eyeball, rolling a toothpick around in his mouth and jerking his chin at me. We were about the same size, but most of his bulk seemed to be blubber. I was starting to wonder how he managed to slide into that shirt without splitting the seams: the fabric was stretched super-tight across his upper arms and shoulders and the buttons were straining dangerously at his gut. As they all began to move inside, he carefully removed his toothpick and spat at my feet, giving me a gold-toothed grin as he turned to follow his amigos.

As the door slammed shut I pulled out a cigarette and contented myself with stomping on the concrete Mexican by the mailbox, grumbling as I did so...

I’d barely taken three drags on my coffin nail when the screaming began.

I pelted up the cracked concrete path and shouldered the door, which parted like plywood. Inside, the room looked like any front parlour in any New England holiday bungalow, except for a few things: the Latinos were non-standard by default, but added to this was the fact that they were all staring around wildly and the big guy was screaming and pointing fearfully at the ceiling in one corner; Winston was standing next to a couch on which lay an opened briefcase, full of plastic packages of white powder, with a mile-wide grin plastered across his features; and Boothe was muttering near the door, his eyes rolled back in his head, making weird shapes with his fingers. I stopped and raised an eyebrow at Winston.

‘Great timing B,’ he said, ‘now if you could just pick up this case, we’ll be on our way.’

‘Pick it up yourself, Gilman,’ I snorted, ‘what’s up with these idiots?’

‘They’ve been undimensioned,’ Boothe broke in, his voice affecting a dreamy quality, like he was stoned. I flinched slightly: his eyes were still blank orbs. ‘In fact, we’ve all been. You can see us, but we’re intangible. That’s why you need to grab the briefcase – we can’t touch it.’

‘Huh,’ I grunted. ‘What’s with him?’ I jerked a thumb at the fat guy who was still screaming and pointing.

Boothe’s head lolled to one side and he smiled faintly. ‘Oh, he’s probably just seeing something – unpleasant,’ he remarked.

I strode across to the couch and slammed down the lid. Two of the Latinos had backed into each other and were goggling and gibbering at the fact that they’d passed right through one another. Their leader was also looking somewhat disconcerted but not enough that he missed me slamming shut the briefcase and hefting it up. He fired me a stiletto gaze from his dark eyes, a blue tattoo tear standing out starkly on his pale cheekbone. He bared his teeth at me in frustration.

‘Right,’ I said to Winston, ‘let’s get outta this freakiness.’

‘Indeed,’ he replied. Then, with one smooth movement, he pulled his gun out of his pants and fired it at the Latino’s leader. The guy’s eyes widened and he hunched forward sharply.

‘Winston!’ I barked.

He cocked his head sideways to look around his pistol. The head Latino looked up at him, fear written large on his face: he looked at his shirt, then back at Winston, and we all came to the realisation that the shot hadn’t affected anyone or anything.

‘Hasta luego cocodrilo,’ Winston smiled at him tucking his piece away once more. ‘Right: let’s boogie.’

Boothe turned smoothly and exited by passing straight through the front wall of the building; Winston giggled and did likewise, winking back at me as he did so. Not being “undimensioned”, I was left to negotiate the wreckage of the front door.

When I reached the Firebird, Boothe and Winston were already inside – despite the fact that I’d locked it – and were ready to go. From inside the house, there was a crash and the screaming Latino was suddenly silenced. A shrill stream of Spanish rang out which spoke of dangerous and vengeful intent. I fumbled with my keys until Boothe leaned over and unlocked the driver’s side door.

‘Spell’s wore off,’ he said matter-of-factly.

I jumped in and started the engine, just as a shot rang out from the building.

‘I reckon you’re right,’ I said stamping on the accelerator. We wheeled around, knocking over the sleeping concrete Mexican, and sped off into the night...

To be Continued...