Jim Grant Short Stories #2 Read online

  Vasquez snapped his fingers again, and the two heavies came down the stairs at a rush. They spread out at the bottom, but since there were only two of them, spreading out didn’t help much. Grant walked toward Vasquez, who pushed his chair back and stood up. Face off. The Mexican drug dealer and the naked man. Neither of them was armed. A lifestyle choice for Grant. Unnecessary for Vasquez; he had two armed men to protect him.

  Being naked had two advantages. First was that nobody ever wanted to grapple with a naked man. He remembered back in Yorkshire when a young constable was trying to restrain a naked woman who was cutting herself with a broken mirror. The inexperienced cop was more worried about where to grab her than the makeshift blade. Grant walked past Vasquez, and the drug dealer stepped aside in disgust. The second thing was that it gave the opposition a false sense of superiority. Being fully clothed and armed meant their reactions were slower because they thought they had the upper hand. A slow draw is a bad draw, even against an unarmed man.

  Grant grabbed the nearest chair and jabbed it forward. Lion tamer. The first man’s gun arm was caught between the chair legs, and Grant twisted it clockwise fast and hard. The arm broke at the wrist, and the Mexican dropped the gun. The second man tried to speed up his draw but was distracted by his colleague’s scream and Grant’s swinging nakedness. Even in communal showers men didn’t like looking at other men’s cocks. The combination gave Grant just enough time. He brought the chair round to block the gun arm at the same time as he stamped down on the Mexican’s knee. It buckled in the wrong direction. The gun went off, sending chips of terra-cotta tile ricocheting across the floor. The man went down, trying not to move his crippled knee.

  Grant turned, put the chair down, and snatched up both guns. Now the swinging dick was armed and dangerous. He kicked the chair toward the man with the broken arm.

  “Sit.”

  He sat. The other Mexican lay on the floor. Vasquez was stunned by the speed in which everything had turned around. From three to one against an unarmed man to being the underdog in a fight that was already lost.

  The gunshot was the worrying thing. That was going to bring the cavalry. Santa Anna’s reinforcements against the lone defender. The Alamo was going to fall—unless the Alamo got out of there fast. The office door opened, and the desk clerk came in clutching the side of his head. Vasquez shot him a glance, and realization dawned on his face. Grant pushed him down into the seat and yanked his jacket down backward so that it trapped his arms against the back of the chair.

  “Adios, amigo.”

  An engine revved outside. The front door opened, and Tony Bohorquez stuck his head through the doorway. He nodded once, then retreated to the Big Bend tourist bus. Anarosa looked out of the back window and waved at her mother. Grant helped Marissa to her feet.

  “Time to go.”

  Vasquez didn’t try to get up. His men would be here soon. “You won’t get away with this.”

  Grant looked down at him. “Yes, I will. Because you love the girl as much as the woman.”

  Their eyes locked, and Grant knew he was right. However ruthless Vasquez was in business, his first reaction on seeing Grant naked had been to protect the child. Taking the girl had been a way to get his woman back. There was no defending the method, but the motive was love. No way would Vasquez risk the girl getting caught in the crossfire. Grant popped the magazine out of each gun, then dismantled the slides and barrels and trigger mechanisms. He dropped the pieces on the floor.

  “All’s fair in love and war.”

  The engine revved, and the driver sounded the horn.

  Grant nodded at the drug dealer who was also just a man. “You’ll get over her.”

  He wasn’t sure he really believed that, but it was something to say. He turned and went out the door, snatched his clothes up off the floor, and got on the bus. The driver spun it in a tight circle that raised a cloud of dust and headed back down Main Street. As the bus passed the hitching post, Jake led the string of donkeys across the street and tied the other end to a flagpole to slow down any pursuers. He jumped on the bus and sat with his wife and stepdaughter.

  Tony Bohorquez turned his dead black eyes on Grant. Grant met the gaze and nodded. In the back of his mind he could hear the gentle twang of guitar music and Robert Earl Keen singing about celebrating a gringo honeymoon. The sentiment seemed entirely appropriate as the bus sped toward the boat on a rope and a short ride across Boquillas Crossing.

  Listen to Robert Earl Keen’s “Gringo Honeymoon” here:

  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gWANCXep4SY

  East Village Down

  The Hershey bar cost a dollar twenty. Buying it at the East Village 7-Eleven almost cost Jim Grant his life. It felt like sacrilege three days before Christmas and just after meeting Donna Bagdasarian. It made him wish they’d stocked Cadbury’s Dairy Milk. Instead, it looked like he was going to have to bust some heads.

  Or, on the other hand, maybe not.

  It was getting dark when Grant crossed the street to the convenience store that was lit up like a Christmas tree. Colored lights, fancy window displays, and a smattering of tinsel and festive decorations made it feel like he was entering Santa’s grotto instead of a corner shop in New York’s Lower Manhattan. East Village. Another example of Americans giving something a name that bore no resemblance to the place it described. The Village wasn’t a village, just a network of brownstones and six-story walk-ups loosely tied together by a geographical location that was only vaguely east of center. It didn’t have cobbled streets or quaint churches like the villages back home.

  It was cold, though. It shared that with Yorkshire.

  The bell tinkled above the door. A little old lady looked up from her shopping basket. At the far end of the store, down three aisles and a deli counter, the shopkeeper checked his watch and glanced nervously at the newcomer. The door banged shut. The bell tinkled again. The little old lady scrutinized the man in the orange windcheater as if sizing him up. It turned out that was exactly what she was doing.

  Grant unzipped the top part of his multilayers—the windcheater, the fleece, and the zippered jumper—and blew into his hands. The shopkeeper closed the cash register. The old lady raised her voice.

  “Come here, young man.” Her voice was strong and commanding. “How tall are you?”

  Grant rubbed his hands together to get the circulation back and walked down the center aisle. Half a dozen shelves towered above the little old lady. They were a couple of feet taller than Grant.

  “Six feet four.”

  The old lady nodded. “Then you’ll do just fine.”

  She pointed a twisted finger at the top shelf. “Could you reach that for me, please?”

  Grant looked at the shelf. It contained three different varieties of canned soup. “Which?”

  “The one I’m pointing at.”

  Grant looked at the finger and tried to determine its target. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but your finger’s pointing all over the place.”

  The woman straightened her back and stared at Grant. “I suppose you’re one of them young fellas that if my eyes weren’t aligned, you’d ask which one you should be focusing on.”

  Grant took the criticism on the chin. “I believe in being straight with people. Even if their fingers are bent.”

  “Or their eyes?”

  “Them too. Helps to know what I’m supposed to be looking at.”

  The woman’s eyes burned into Grant’s. She pursed her lips. Then she smiled. “Then you’re the kind of man I need.”

  “Straight talking?”

  “Tall.”

  She waggled her finger. “Tomato soup. On the left. Two cans, please.”

  Grant reached up and grabbed two cans in one hand. He put them in the old lady’s basket. She patted him on the arm. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”<
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  Her eyes softened. “If you’re ever stuck for work, you could always be a Reacher.”

  She smiled at some private joke, then a force of nature swept round the corner from the cash register. A striking woman dressed in black with a blood-red scarf and matching lipstick. She made a beeline for the pair under the soup shelf.

  “Oh, Mother, leave the poor man alone. Don’t you know who he is?”

  Grant felt his heart sink. Ever since the media had got hold of him, this kind of thing kept on happening. Maybe it was time he got rid of the orange windcheater that had become his trademark. Walking with his arms out like Jesus on the cross would be easy to avoid. Being known on TV as the Resurrection Man was more difficult. He surrendered to the inevitable.

  “What gave me away?”

  The woman in black slowed to a stop next to her mother. Fierce eyes made the old lady’s look like limpid pools of calm. A straight back and strong jaw line made her a formidable presence.

  “Apart from the fact you’ve been on every TV news program in the country since Boston and LA?”

  “I tried to avoid that.”

  “Shit blowing up around you didn’t help.”

  “Nothing blew up in Los Angeles.”

  “A lot went bang though.”

  “True.”

  The woman held out her hand. “Donna Bagdasarian. Literary agent.”

  Grant shook it. “Jim Grant. Shelf Reacher.”

  Her mother sniggered. Donna lowered her voice. “Lee Child says you’re somebody I should talk to.”

  Her mother sniggered again. Grant focused on Donna. “The writer?”

  “The writer of macho action novels.”

  Grant knew where this was going and didn’t like it anymore than when he’d been suggested for a reality TV show about the Resurrection Man. Literary agent and author. He put two and two together and got three. Donna Bagdasarian wanted Lee Child to write a series of novels based on Grant’s exploits, loosely couched as fiction. Grant had heard stories that Ian Fleming was writing about the real James Bond but had dismissed them as media hype—media hype he knew all too well.

  Donna raised an eyebrow. “The writer whose real name is James Grant.”

  That caught Grant by surprise. “You’re kidding.”

  Donna shook her head. “And his character is called Reacher.”

  Donna’s mother mimicked reaching for the top shelf and sniggered again.

  Grant smiled. “Small world.”

  Donna smiled back. “What do you think?”

  Grant paused before replying. He let out a sigh. “How much is a Hershey bar?”

  Then the front door slammed open, and three gunmen barged into the shop.

  The three wise men didn’t look very wise and barely qualified as men. Three scruffy white males in their mid to late twenties, average height, medium build, with woolly hats and heavy coats. An ugly black handgun each and no idea how to use them.

  That was Grant’s first impression. First impressions are rarely correct but are always important. They’re what you base your actions on. They’re why so many people act rashly and make mistakes. Grant filed away his first impression but didn’t act upon it. People who don’t know how to use firearms are more dangerous than those who do. They might not hit what they aim at, but they invariably hit somebody. Grant didn’t want to get shot by a moron. He didn’t want anyone getting caught in the crossfire either.

  Moron Number One fired a shot at the ceiling and shouted above the noise. “Nobody move. Everybody on the ground. Now.”

  The shopkeeper put his hands in the air. Donna stepped in front of her mother. Grant opened his mouth to speak, but the old lady beat him to it.

  “Do you want us to stand still or move? You can’t have it both ways.”

  Donna elbowed her mother to be quiet. Grant fought back a smirk. Number One bristled and came over, waving his gun and contradicting himself. “Get over to the cash register. All of you.”

  Moron Number Two joined him, gun hand wobbling all over the place. More dangerous than a trained man. Grant reckoned he could accidentally squeeze a shot off at any moment. Best keep everyone calm.

  “I think we’d best do what they say, ma’am.”

  Number One pointed his gun at each of them in turn but settled on Grant.

  “Yeah. Do what he says. Cash register.”

  Moron Number Three flicked the Shop Closed sign on the door and slid the bolts top and bottom. He guarded the entrance like he was barefoot on hot coals. Numbers One and Two herded the hostages along the center aisle toward the cash register. The shopkeeper looked more nervous than when Grant had come in. He stepped back from the counter. To show that he wasn’t activating the alarm, Grant reckoned. His eyes were wide with fear. Panic flared his nostrils. He was finding it hard to breathe, everything coming in shallow gasps. He was hyperventilating. This wasn’t the time to give him a brown paper bag to breathe into, so Grant held his hands out in a calming gesture.

  “Take it easy. Slow breaths. In through the nose and out through the mouth. Nobody needs to get hurt here.”

  The shopkeeper nodded, but his eyes were still edgy.

  Number One fired at the ceiling again to show who was in charge. “Somebody might if we don’t get our money.”

  Number Two fired as well, just to show he knew how, but kept quiet.

  The old lady was about to say something, but Donna elbowed her again.

  Grant relaxed. At a time like this, the best form of action was inaction. Diffuse the situation. Keep everyone calm—especially the men with guns. Amateur or not, keeping calm didn’t seem to be in the shopkeeper’s makeup. His nostrils twitched. His eyes blinked. He managed to steady his breathing enough to get a few words out. The words chilled Grant’s blood.

  “I think I’ve done something stupid.”

  Sweat beaded on his brow. It ran down his face and stung his eyes. He lowered one hand to wipe it away but now his eyes were watering with the stress of keeping them wide open. He glanced out the shop window.

  A blue light flashed in the darkness. Then a red one. Then another. And another. A forest of red and blue lights fought to be seen over the Christmas decorations. Number Three let out a yelp. Numbers One and Two swung their guns toward the lights.

  The telephone began to ring.

  Grant watched to see how this was going to play out. He had an idea what the next move would be and wasn’t surprised when the shopkeeper froze at the sound of the phone. His arms shot up like a stagecoach passenger being held up by bandits. He took a deep breath and proceeded to hold it. His face went red. He puffed his cheeks out. Panic filled his eyes.

  Number One waved his gun at the shopkeeper. “Answer it.”

  The shopkeeper looked relieved to have the decision made for him. He lowered his hands and let out a sigh. He stared at the phone as if it was going to bite him. It continued to ring. Whoever was calling was very persistent. Number One waved the gun again. His patience was wearing thin. Tension filled the air. This was getting out of hand. Itchy trigger fingers needed calming. Grant stepped forward and reached for the phone.

  Three guns swung toward him.

  The shopkeeper jerked in surprise.

  Number One snapped an order. “Not you. Him.”

  He took up a two-handed Dirty Harry firing stance at the shopkeeper. The phone continued to ring.

  Numbers Two and Three covered Grant and the ladies. Number One cocked the hammer. It should have been a threatening gesture but the slide had already cocked the gun when it rammed a fresh round into the chamber. The spent cartridge had bounced across the floor. Grant made a mental note.

  The shopkeeper picked up the phone. “East Village Store.”

  His voice sounded two octaves higher than Grant expected. That could happen when you were under pressure. Being ro
bbed at gunpoint could put you under pressure. Grant thought there might be something else as well. The shopkeeper listened for a few moments, then held the handset out to the robber. “They want to talk to you.”

  Red and blue lights continued to flash outside. The store was surrounded. The hostage negotiator would ask calm and nondescript questions to put the gunmen at ease.

  Number One didn’t want a big man standing over him while he talked on the phone, so he jerked the gun toward the floor before taking the handset. “Sit. Over there.”

  Number Two took over prisoner handling. “On the floor. Against the deli counter.”

  That was a mistake. The deli counter was over to one side, facing the cash register. It meant Grant and the ladies had a front-row seat to what was happening. Number Two should have sat them with their backs to the action so that Grant would be vulnerable. Sitting them on the floor was only halfway safe.

  Grant watched and listened and continued to form an idea that had been niggling him ever since the shopkeeper looked up when Grant entered the shop. A front-row seat. An angled mirror behind the counter gave him a perfect view of the action. The cash register. The counter. The red and blue lights flashing through the windows. The spent cartridge on the floor in front of the deli. He tried to focus on what was being said on the phone.

  A nudge from Donna Bagdasarian distracted him. “Do you want to know what Lee Child said?”

  This was neither the time nor the place for discussing literary matters, but Donna was a persuasive advocate. Grant listened with half his mind while the rest absorbed the telephone conversation. It wasn’t an ideal situation. Only being able to hear one side of the hostage negotiation while the agent discussed his literary future. The two-add-two calculation Grant had made earlier. Turned out he’d got the answer wrong. She didn’t want Lee Child to write the stories.

  “I’ve got the perfect author. Lee referred him to me.”

  Grant nodded but didn’t speak.

  Donna pushed on. “A Yorkie.”

  This Grant couldn’t ignore. “A chocolate bar?”

  “A Yorkshireman like you.”