Stolen Souls

34

HERKUS CURSED THE traffic as he fought his way back to the hotel. Christmas shoppers flooding the city center, too stupid to have bought their presents beforehand. He shouted at them, spittle dotting the inside of the windshield.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have taken that last hit of the cocaine he’d gotten from Maxwell. Two blasts should’ve been enough to shake the heavy murk from his brow, but still he took another.

He willed himself to be calm as he inched from Chichester Street on to Victoria Street. The hotel stood just a few hundred yards from one of the city’s biggest shopping centers. Horns blared as cars tried to enter and exit the underground car park. Two cops did their best to direct traffic, but were largely ignored by the motorists.

Herkus was stuck and could do little about it. He turned up the heat and shouted anyway. It made him feel better.

His phone rang.

“What?” he asked.

“It’s me,” Arturas said. “Where are you?”

“Not far, just down the road, but the traffic’s bad.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know,” Herkus said. “Might be a while. I’ve moved maybe ten feet in as many minutes. Fucking shoppers.”

A pause, then Arturas asked, “Do you have anything for me?”

“Yes, I’ve got something.”

“Get out and walk,” Arturas said.

“What?”

“Pull over and park,” Arturas said. “You can walk here if you’re so close.”

Herkus gave an exasperated laugh. “No, I can’t. There’s nowhere to pull over. Even if there was, I couldn’t get across the traffic. It’s too—”

“I don’t care. Just get here.”

“Listen, boss, I—”

The knock at the driver’s window almost caused Herkus to drop the phone.

“Hold on,” he said to Arturas.

The traffic cop bent down and looked through the glass at him, his pudgy cheeks red and wet from the snow. He knocked again and made a winding motion with his gloved hand.

Herkus gave a polite smile and hit the down button.

“Afternoon, sir,” the cop said.

Herkus nodded.

“Any idea why I came over and knocked your window?” the cop asked, a tired flatness to his voice.

Herkus shook his head.

“I came over and knocked your window because I saw you using your phone,” the cop said. “As I’m sure you’re aware, it’s an offense to operate a mobile phone when in charge of a motor vehicle.”

“Is it?” Herkus asked. He hung up, ignoring the tinny sound of Arturas’s voice, and dropped the phone onto the dashboard. Watching the policeman, he placed his hands in plain view on the steering wheel. The sweat on his palms slicked the leather.

“Yes it is,” the cop said. “I’ll not ask you to step out of the car because of the traffic, but I’ll have a look at your documents, if you don’t mind.”

“Dock-ment?” Herkus asked.

“License and insurance certificate,” the cop said, his pleasant demeanor growing more forced.

“I English no good,” Herkus said.

“License and insurance,” the cop said. “Now.”

Herkus shook his head. “No English.”

The cop opened the door, reached in, and took the key from the ignition, letting the car’s engine die. “Out,” he said. He jerked his thumb in a gesture that couldn’t be misunderstood, whatever the language.

Herkus let his right hand drop between his legs, his fingertips almost touching the floor of the car. The Glock and ammunition lay tucked into a compartment cut into the underside of the seat. He only needed to reach down, pull back the fabric, and grab the pistol.

“Out,” the cop said again.

“No English,” Herkus said.

Possibilities raced through his mind, but he knew they were fueled by the cocaine. The packet was hidden along with the Glock. He breathed deep, felt the winter air tingle in his nasal passages.

Be calm, Herkus told himself. Be good. They can’t touch you. He lifted his hand from between his legs and got out of the car.

“Wasn’t so hard, was it?” the cop said.

Herkus shrugged. The other cop had stayed where he was, directing traffic, but kept an eye on his partner as he waved and signaled at the motorists.

“Documents,” the cop said to Herkus. “License. Insurance.”

“Okay,” Herkus said.

He reached inside the car, pulled down the sun visor, grabbed his Lithuanian license and company insurance certificate, and handed them over.

Herkus waited while the cop examined the plastic card and the sheet of paper. “European People Management?” he asked.

“My boss,” Herkus said. “He pay insurance.”

“Your English has improved,” the cop said. “Well, let’s see if you can understand this: We’re going to move your car to the side of the road so we can have a proper chat. Okay?”

“Okay,” Herkus said.

The cop whistled at his partner, a taller, thinner man, and beckoned him over. They huddled in conversation, agreed something, and the fat cop got into the Mercedes. He restarted the engine while the other began directing traffic around it.

“Why don’t you move over to the pavement, sir?” he asked.

Herkus did as he was told, but took his time about it. He ambled toward the footpath as if it were his own wish to do so. The cop resumed his directing, talking into a radio on his lapel at the same time. The Mercedes inched its way to the curb.

The phone in Herkus’s pocket rang. He pulled it out, looked at the display. Arturas, it said. He cursed and hit the reject button.

Let him wait, Herkus thought. Or he can come out here and talk to these cops.

They didn’t care about him using a phone while driving. That was just an excuse to stop him. Something was going on here. What did they really want?

Wait and see, Herkus thought. Wait and see.