Rupert Thomson - The Five Gates of Hell

‘It’s the big night,’ Creed said.

Jed waited.

‘There’s a warehouse in Mangrove. United Paper Products.’ He gave Jed the address. ‘Leave the limousine there. Be back here at nine-thirty. Under the building. We’ll be using your car.’

Jed wondered why Creed was dispensing with the limousine. Too conspicuous, he supposed. And, now he thought about it, he was glad. Using the Chrysler would be to his advantage. No glass partition, much less chance of Creed noticing anything unusual. Jed spent most of the afternoon in the parking-lot, wiring up the back seat.

At nine o’clock he drove to the gas station two blocks south of the hotel. He checked the tyres and the oil, and filled the tank. When he returned to the parking-lot, it was nine-twenty-five. Creed and McGowan were already waiting in front of the elevator doors. McGowan wore the faded blue overalls of a city sanitation man. He was holding a long canvas bag and a cardboard box.

Jed opened the door as usual, even though it was his own car. Habit. He watched McGowan lay the bag flat on the floor.

‘What’s in there?’ he asked.

McGowan grinned. ‘Tools.’

In the car Creed leaned forwards. ‘Gorelli’s brother lives in Los Ilusiones. Housing project on North East 27th. Lives with his girlfriend. You’re going to knock on his door and you’re going to bring him outside and you’re going to put him in the car.’

McGowan handed him a gun. ‘You might need this,’ he said, ‘to persuade him with.’

Jed put the gun in his jacket pocket. Though he hadn’t really looked at it, he was sure it was the same one that had been forced into the tourist’s mouth.

‘Then what happens?’ he said.

‘Then what happens is, we take him for a little ride out to the Crumbles.’ Creed paused. ‘You got that?’

Jed nodded.

He moved off. Past the security guard, up the ramp, out on to the dim street. It was 89 degrees. Clouds hung over the city. There were more of them than there used to be, he was sure of it. It was all the burning that was going on. Sea burials were as popular as ever, but they weren’t cheap. The poor were still being burned. And some of the crematoria were cutting corners. There’d been a thing about it in the paper. They were burning at temperatures of less than 1300 degrees, which meant that dioxyns were being released into the air. Sometimes he looked at the clouds and wondered what percentage ashes they were. Sometimes he wondered how many dead people there were to a cloud. How many dead people came down with the rain.

He was driving at a steady thirty-five. Down First, left along G, right into Central. They passed the viewing theatre. Another mystery corpse: YOUR LAST CHANCE TO IDENTIFY! $10 °COULD BE YOURS! Someone’s forgotten Grandma. Some runaway. Some drunk. More smoke for the chimneys. More clouds for the sky.

His throat was dry and he’d forgotten to buy any candy.

It was the big night.

They reached Los Ilusiones in less than half an hour. Creed directed him to a narrow sidestreet. He killed the engine and the lights. Latin music took over. Somebody’s radio.

Los Ilusiones was 99 per cent ghetto. It was bounded by Moon River in the east, and the suburbs of Mortlake and Rialto in the west and south respectively. It had pretty much the same kind of reputation as Rialto, only more so. A high-octane mix of racial minorities, a flair for riots and looting. Taxi-drivers wouldn’t take you there. The only whites in the area were winos and dealers, and they mostly ended up in the river. Jed wanted this part over with, and quick.

Creed leaned forwards and pointed through the windshield. ‘That’s the building.’

It was a five-storey apartment block built in a C-shape. The gap in the C faced the street. Concrete balconies ran the length of each floor. There was a courtyard below, lit by spotlights.

‘Looks like a fucking jail,’ came McGowan’s voice from the back.

‘It’s number 22,’ Creed said. ‘Second floor.’

‘You know which side?’ Jed asked him.

‘Take the stairs on the left.’

Jed stepped out of the car. He was only aware of two things now. The weight of the gun in his jacket pocket and the night air, thicker here than in the city centre, it was further from the ocean, you sometimes felt you couldn’t breathe until you found your way to the end of the land. He crossed the street. It was bright in the courtyard. Five cars. A burned-out motorbike. A drain. He turned left, walked close to the edge of the building. He sensed he was being watched, one of the balconies above, but he didn’t look up. He noticed the cars. A Mercedes. A Cadillac. This was cheap city housing, and cars like that could only mean one thing. Two things. Armed robbery and drugs. He suddenly felt he was facing impossible odds.

Once he reached the stairs he felt safer. The walls were brick low down, then pale-blue and scarred with graffiti: SEX and a phone number. He smelt meat frying, then urine, then washing powder. On the second floor he turned left. The first door he came to had lost its number. He swore under his breath. The second door said 20. That was good. It meant that number 22 would be close to the stairs. He could still feel eyes on him, they were like fingers, they poked him in the ribs, the shoulderblades, the neck, it was hard not looking round. He reached number 22 and knocked with the flap of the mailbox. He took the gun out of his pocket and held it at waist-level. That way it would be invisible to anyone watching from the other side of the building. The door opened. A man in a white vest, grey flannel pants. Ears like Vasco’s. Less fat on him, though. No rings.

Jed moved the gun one inch to the left and back again. ‘Out,’ he said. ‘Right now.’

Gorelli blinked. ‘What?’

‘You’re leaving.’ Jed grabbed Gorelli by the upper arm and spun him on to the balcony.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a face appear in the corridor. A girl in a yellow dress. Hands in the air beside her ears. Lives with his girlfriend. Girlfriend was about to scream. He slammed the door shut and shoved Gorelli along the balcony towards the stairs.

Gorelli turned. ‘What about my shoes?’

Jed shoved him again. ‘Keep moving,’ he said, ‘or I’ll blow your fucking kidneys out.’

They reached the ground and the screaming began.

‘Francisco! Francisco!’

The girl was swaying on the balcony above. Her yellow dress, her hands searching her black hair. For lice, Jed thought. Lice like Gorelli. His loyalty had come in a rush, like a drug, he had no doubts about which side he was on. They were all playing by the same rules. Gorelli, he’d won for a while, but now he was losing, and he was losing big. Jed had to hate him. It was the only way.

When Gorelli turned his face up to the balcony, Jed hit him on the shoulder with the gun. Gorelli yelped. His arm shrank, hung against his ribs. The girl on the balcony was still swaying, screaming. You want to do something about it, Jed thought, why don’t you jump?

He shoved Gorelli against the Chrysler with his gun and pulled the rear door open. He pushed Gorelli in. McGowan was still sitting in the back, Creed had moved into the front. Jed handed the gun to McGowan and climbed into the driver’s seat.

‘Nice work,’ Creed said. ‘Now drive.’

Jed let the clutch out and the Chrysler took off. He swung right and took a bite out of the kerb. The car rocked, straightened up. He beat a red light and turned right again, on to the parkway that led along the river to the bridge.

‘The Crumbles, right?’ he said.

‘Yeah, and slow down,’ Creed said. ‘We don’t want people smelling something funny.’

Jed slowed to thirty. The lights of Rialto slid by on the right. On the left: the boatyards, wire-mesh fences, metal gates. Then a stone parapet and bright white globes on poles like giant pearl hat-pins. The oily swell of the river beyond.