Jim Grant Short Stories #2 Page 4

  “I doubt he’s anything like me. Otherwise he’d be a cop, not a writer.”

  “He’s a retired cop. Thirty years with the West Yorkshire Police.”

  Grant’s old force. He’d worked many a night shift at Ecclesfield Police Station covering the north of Bradford and dealing with the scum of the universe. He wondered if he’d ever worked with this budding author.

  “What’s his name?”

  Donna was about to tell him when Number One slammed down the phone. Negotiations over. Not with a positive outcome for the hostages. Grant put a hand over Donna’s mouth. The first time anyone had ever shut her up. Number One pulled a canvas bag out of his coat pocket and threw it across the cash register.

  “All the money in the bag.”

  The shopkeeper pressed a couple of buttons, and the cash drawer pinged open. He began taking banknotes out and stuffing them into the bag. There wasn’t much. This was a 7-Eleven, not a bank; not enough to warrant a three-man robbery. Not enough for a hostage negotiator to authorize a jet at the airport or a full incursion. From what Grant could hear of the telephone conversation, they hadn’t even asked how many hostages were being held.

  He looked at the mirror again, double-checking what he already knew. This wasn’t about the money in the till.

  Number One confirmed it for him. “And the safe.”

  The shopkeeper blinked. Grant took his hand from Donna’s mouth. Donna didn’t speak. Her eyes said she recognized the situation was cranking up. Maybe she was hoping there would be a Resurrection Man story here, written by her Yorkshire author. The shopkeeper looked uncomfortable.

  “What safe?”

  He didn’t sound convincing. He blushed like a nervous actor giving his first performance.

  Number One overacted like an old ham. “The floor safe behind the counter, you dim-witted muthafucka.”

  The shopkeeper glanced at Grant to see if he was accepting this. He ignored the ladies who would have been the only witnesses if Grant hadn’t come in at the last minute, prompting the nervous watch-checking. Number One waved his gun but didn’t fire another shot at the ceiling. Numbers Two and Three spread out to form a cordon around the hostages, with their backs to the red and blue flashing lights through the windows.

  The main threat.

  Not a mother and daughter and a lone stranger.

  The cordon widened as they stepped backwards, the guns out of reach of a desperate lunge. Grant looked at the guns. He looked at the Christmas display. He looked at the reverse view in the mirror behind the cash register. And he looked at the counter display of budget DVDs. He’d been wrong about Lee Child. He didn’t think he was wrong about this. It was almost time to bust some heads.

  Or, on the other hand, maybe not.

  Grant shifted his legs into a kneeling position as if getting himself comfortable. He massaged the cramp out of his thighs and flexed his knees, nudging half a shuffle nearer to the old lady’s shopping basket on the floor. The shopkeeper stepped back from the counter.

  Number One overacted again, waving his gun and raising his voice. “Open the muthafuckin’ safe.”

  The shopkeeper moved behind the budget DVDs and knocked the display.

  Grant nodded at the film top center. “You ever see that one?”

  The shopkeeper peered over the display.

  Number One lowered his gun.

  Grant pointed at the DVD. “Black Hawk Down.”

  Nobody answered, so he continued. “Ridley Scott goes to war. Great movie. Snatch squad goes into shantytown—some foreign country I don’t remember. Looking to grab their target real quick, then Black Hawk out of there.”

  The shopkeeper began to sweat again.

  Number One looked suspicious.

  Grant shook his head. “Target was this local warlord, but it could have been anything.”

  The gun wavered somewhere between the shopkeeper and Grant. Numbers Two and Three kept their distance, taking their cues from Number One. Itchy trigger fingers meant the main threat could be any one of them. Grant kept talking while he decided which.

  “Could have been a rescue mission or a hit squad or an inside job at the 7-Eleven.”

  That got everyone’s attention.

  “But then it all went to ratshit when they got a Black Hawk down.”

  Grant slowly moved one hand toward the shopping basket. “Just like now. East Village down.”

  Grant spun on his knees and pushed up. He was on his feet with a can of soup in each hand before the gunmen knew what was happening. He uncoiled from the shoulder and threw the first can at Number Three. Solid weight as hard as Grant could throw, right in the face. Number Three dropped to his knees just as Grant threw the second can. Number Two went down like a felled tree. Two guns clattered to the floor. Mother and daughter kicked them away.

  Grant turned a split second too late. Number One whipped his gun into a two-handed stance. Center mass. He shot Grant point-blank in the chest.

  The heat and pain were indistinguishable. It spread through Grant’s chest where the muzzle flash scorched his clothes. Donna jerked backwards in shock. Her mother took a sharp intake of breath. Grant stood erect for a couple of seconds while he checked if he’d been right or wrong. The pain suggested he’d been wrong. The lack of real damage proved he was right.

  He grabbed Number One’s gun hand at the wrist and forced it up and away. He stepped under the upraised arm, doubled the wrist into a gooseneck, and pulled the gun free of paralyzed fingers. Momentum kept the gooseneck wrist turning. Pain forced Number One to follow or risk having it broken. He spun in one movement until Grant had the arm twisted up the gunman’s back. Grant stamped on the back of his leg and dropped him to the floor with his accomplices.

  Most of his accomplices.

  The shopkeeper still had his hands in the air behind the counter. Grant nodded toward the window. “You can tell Santa to turn the lights off.”

  The shopkeeper gulped and nodded. He pressed redial on the phone. “Turn ’em off. Then get out of here.”

  Donna helped her mother to her feet and stared in open-mouthed awe. The Resurrection Man had just survived certain death again. She was still in shock, but Grant reckoned her mind was already wondering what her Yorkie author could do with this.

  Grant put the gun in a gap next to Black Hawk Down, then dragged Number One across the floor. He sat him against the deli counter, then pulled Numbers Two and Three next to him. Three wise men who weren’t very wise.

  The red and blue lights stopped flashing outside.

  The shopkeeper deflated like a pricked balloon.

  Donna mouthed words that didn’t come out. She couldn’t take her eyes off Grant’s scorched chest. Grant pointed at the ceiling. “How many shots?”

  Donna looked up, calculating. “Two?”

  Grant shook his head. “Three. How many holes?”

  Donna searched the ceiling. It was East Village solid with a few additions to accommodate the shop. Hooks to dangle sales notices. Pipes to keep the shop warm. But no bullet holes. Donna’s eyes widened as realization struck. Grant uncurled the fingers of his right hand. The brass shell casing had the crimped end of a blank cartridge. Grant picked the guns off the floor where the ladies had kicked them.

  “You can fire blanks from any gun.”

  He angled it so Donna could look down the barrel.

  “But most blank firers have the barrel plugged.”

  Donna squinted to see the lump of metal blocking the shaft. She didn’t look convinced so Grant nodded toward the angled mirror behind the cash register. It showed the back of the shopkeeper’s head and the clear space under the counter. There were no wires apart from the power cord for the cash register. There was no little red button or switch that could be flicked.

  Grant raised his eyebrows. “Banks have panic buttons. Not
7-Elevens.”

  Donna glanced through the window.

  Grant filled in the last piece of the puzzle. He reached up to the shelf of Christmas decorations and took a circular disco light from the display. There were various colors, but this one was blue. He flicked a switch on the base and the light flashed on and off. There was an empty space on the shelf where half a dozen lights were missing.

  “Two ladies would make perfect witnesses. Shop could claim it was robbed. You could prove they were right. Merry Christmas.”

  Donna nodded. “But then you came in.”

  “I did.”

  Three days to Christmas. Grant had to decide how to handle this. Did he really want a mountain of paperwork when he was only visiting the Big Apple? He kicked Number One’s outstretched leg.

  “Wallets. All of you.”

  Grant opened the wallets and took out two driver’s licenses and a library card. “You don’t drive?”

  That was to Number Three. The reader.

  “No. But I’ve read Lee Child.”

  Grant jerked a thumb at Donna Bagdasarian. “Your lucky day, then. She’s a personal friend of his.”

  He pocketed the IDs. “And I know where you live.”

  He turned off the blue flashing light.

  “One thing, though. Hostage negotiator? Over-egged the pudding there.”

  The three didn’t need telling twice. They were up and out the door before the bell stopped tinkling. The shopkeeper looked pathetically grateful. Grant looked at Bagdasarian senior and mimed sliding the Shop Closed sign to Open. She walked briskly to the door.

  Grant turned to the shopkeeper.

  “You need to earn the shop a Christmas bonus.”

  The shopkeeper nodded vigorously. “Yes, indeed. Thank you, sir. Thank you.”

  Donna moved closer to the Resurrection Man. “About my Yorkie author. What do you think?”

  Grant paused before replying. He let out a sigh, then turned to the shopkeeper.

  “Do you sell Cadbury’s Dairy Milk?”

  The following excerpt is from

  jamaica plain

  The first Resurrection Man

  novel by Colin Campbell.

  one

  The first thing Jim Grant did when he landed in Boston was buy a map. The second thing was get laid. The third was almost get himself killed interviewing a prisoner who was into something far bigger than what the detective came to interview him about.

  Detective. That sounded good, but Grant knew it was only a temporary assignment while his inspector cleaned up the mess he’d left behind in Yorkshire. He was still just a plain old constable: PC 367 Grant. Maybe while he was visiting the US he should think of himself as a cop. Then again, maybe not. That would be going a bit too Hollywood.

  First things first. If he were going to find his way around Boston, he’d need a map. Ignoring the other passengers collecting their wheeled cases from the luggage carousel, Grant hefted the battered leather holdall in one hand and went in search of the concession stands. That was his first mistake. Three thousand miles from home, and trouble still managed to find him straightaway.

  Logan International was bigger than Manchester Airport, but the basics were the same. Wide open spaces, big windows looking out onto the runways, and dozens of preformed waiting-room chairs in rows of four with a low table in between, all connected so if one person sat down, all four seats bounced. Grant had lost count of how many cups of coffee he’d spilled because some heavyweight couldn’t lower himself into his seat.

  The place smelled of plastic and canned air.

  There were fewer seats in the arrivals lounge than in departures. Fewer people wanted to sit down after spending a long flight cramped in a seat with no legroom and someone in front leaning back so that what little room you did have was crushed against your knees. At least that was Grant’s experience of international travel. At six feet four he’d have troubling stretching out in first class. West Yorkshire Police hadn’t paid for first class. Prisoner extradition might have warranted the expense. Getting your bad egg out of the way meant the cheapest seat available and forget the legroom.

  Logan had one other thing in common with Manchester. Airports attracted criminals like flies around shit. For some reason, Grant was the embodiment of human flypaper. He wasn’t looking, but his eyes couldn’t help roving. It was a reflex action. Any room he entered, the first thing he’d do was scan the crowd, quickly followed by a check of the exits and any mirrors that could be used for extra viewing. He never sat anywhere he couldn’t see behind him. He never stood anywhere he couldn’t get out of fast if trouble started.

  This wasn’t trouble. It was two kids dipping pockets and doing it very well.

  Distraction was the main technique for most crimes apart from blatant armed robbery. Thieves didn’t want to get caught, so it was better if nobody saw what they were stealing. Burglars usually broke in at night. Thieves usually stole when nobody was looking. Only complete idiots or hardened criminals stuck a gun in your face and demanded your money. The victims would remember you for the rest of their lives. Some might even shoot you. If nobody saw you take their wallet, then who was going to be a witness in court? Nobody.

  Movement and noise were the best distractions. An airport arrivals lounge had plenty of both. Everyone was in a rush. Suitcases were being wheeled around. Visitors were looking for their relatives. Airport transfer drivers were milling around with name cards written in thick black letters. People were buying coffee, magazines, and maps.

  Grant was paying for the Boston street map at Hudson News when he spotted the teenage tag team. Their target was an attractive woman in a business suit he’d seen at the luggage carousels. Tidy figure. Tight trousers. Nice arse. He focused on that for a while, but his peripheral vision saw the hunters circling. Part of his brain wanted to chat with the businesswoman. Part of him wanted to arrest the pickpockets. The rest of him remembered his inspector giving a stern warning before setting off.

  Keep out of trouble. Don’t get involved. You’re off-duty.

  That wasn’t strictly true. This was a holiday assignment, yes. Interview the prisoner. Eliminate him from the inquiry. Release him and come home. He’d been sent on it to keep him out of the way while Discipline and Complaints investigated the mess at Snake Pass. But he’d be on-duty during the interview, and technically you were on-duty while traveling to and from work for the purposes of injury-on-duty claims. Have an accident on the way to work and it was classed as an injury on-duty. So if he spotted a crime on his way to work …

  Keep out of trouble. Don’t get involved.

  That part went against the grain. If there was one thing Jim Grant found hard to do, it was ignore a crime right in front of his face. Bad guys did bad things. It was up to the good guys to stop them. Grant was one of the good guys. Always had been. Keeping out of trouble should be easy with a pair of teenagers. Maybe thirteen or fourteen. It just required a bit of tact.

  He paid for the map and watched.

  The teenage boy was very good. The girl was even better. What they had going for them was how innocent they both looked. Butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths, you’d think. Grant watched them hanging around outside the magazine stand. They appeared to be waiting for their parents—only they weren’t watching for someone joining them, they were scouring the shoppers for easy marks.

  The businesswoman wheeled her suitcase into the shop, an expensive shoulder bag hanging open around her back. The boy nodded. The girl split off and held position ten feet away. The dance began.

  The woman bought a pack of breath mints and an orange juice. The boy stayed a few feet behind her. The girl kept station ten feet away. When the woman left the shop, the boy followed. The girl never let the distance alter—ten feet—until the boy nodded again. The girl moved in front and bumped into the woman. The boy’s hand was so
fast Grant hardly saw it. In and out of the bag in a flash. He broke left and the girl apologized, going right. A quick half-circle and they crossed paths. A dull brown shape was switched, and now it was the girl, all cute and innocent, with the stolen goods. The woman didn’t even know she’d been targeted.

  Don’t get involved.

  Not an option. Grant moved quick, before the boy and girl separated too far. Without being obvious, he grabbed the boy’s arm and guided him towards the girl. He identified himself as police and told the girl to follow them. She did. Fear shone in her eyes. Caught in the act. It was the look every kid he’d ever arrested had the first time. He didn’t squeeze. There was no need. The threesome gathered by a water fountain against the wall.

  “Okay, kids. I haven’t got time for this. Hand it over.”

  The girl’s eyes darted at the boy and then over his shoulder. The boy had no resistance. The girl gave Grant the wallet. He kept half an eye on the teenagers and the other half on the businesswoman. She had stopped to take a drink of orange juice and drop the mints in her bag. Grant towered over the teenagers.

  “Now beat it. You won’t be so lucky next time.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he set off across the concourse. The woman was on her second swig of juice when he held the wallet out. “I think you dropped this.”

  Her first reaction was to look him in the eyes. A hard, straight look that sized him up in an instant. Big guy in worn jeans and a faded orange windcheater. Then she reverted to victim mode. She swung the shoulder bag round front and rummaged inside. Grant handed the wallet over. Gratitude feathered a smile across her lips. A twinkle in her eyes. “What sharp little eyes you’ve got.”

  “Not so little.”

  “No, you aren’t, are you?”

  This was interesting. Grant was about to explore the possibilities when he saw the teenagers over the woman’s shoulder. The fear in the girl’s eyes had multiplied tenfold. The angry man herding them away didn’t look like their father.

  Keep out of trouble.

  That didn’t look like an option now either. The man was big in a lumpy fat man sort of way. There was bulk and muscle, but he was out of shape. That didn’t matter when it came to intimidating kids. The kids looked plenty intimidated. The girl looked terrified.