Johnson Containers, Inc.
Carburetor Corporation of America
In a quarter mile he broke from that industrial graveyard into an expanse of huge, weedy lots—twenty or thirty acres of them—where facilities had once stood and were now bulldozed flat and filled with nothing but discarded cinder blocks, piles of brick, pipes and the trash that people had tossed over the chain-link. Flyers and sheets of newspapers and shattered Styrofoam cups chased one another in the soft spirally autumn wind.
Shaw had heard redevelopment awaited. His time in Ferrington told him that any glorious makeover would be a long time coming. If ever.
The sidewalk he was on veered right and joined the riverwalk beside the Kenoah.
The trio he’d just scammed would eventually learn that Shaw had made the swap. Would they want revenge against his in-case-of-emergency contacts? That would be time poorly spent. His private eye, Mack McKenzie, had ginned up an identity for him. The slim leather billfold LeClaire had relieved him of contained everything from driver’s license to credit cards to grocery store loyalty cards(new to Shaw; he’d never used one). Mack had even photoshopped him into a family portrait. He was married to a striking Latina; they had two well-scrubbed and photogenic children.
Shaw assessed a less than one percent chance of Rass or Ahmad traveling to Anchorage, Alaska, his fictional home, and even if they did they would not find the fictional Carter Stone and his fictional family.
He looked ahead, at his destination, a ten-story structure, red brick like most other buildings in downtown. On top was a large sign. The bottom was painted dark red and the color gradient changed, moving upward until, at the top, the shade was a bright yellow, the color of the sun on a cloudless day. The words over this backdrop were:
Harmon Energy Products
Leading the Way to a Brighter and Cleaner Tomorrow
As he walked, he looked about. Not much reason for anyone to be in this neighborhood, and it was largely deserted. Some emaciated teen boys, in hoodies and loose jeans, leaned against or sat beneath graffitied walls, maybe hoping to sell some crack or meth or smack, or buy some. A man of gray pallor and indeterminate age lounged back, bundled in blankets despite the unseasonal warmth of the day. He sat in front of his homeless home of cardboard, with a strategic trapezoid of Sheetrock for the front door. He hadn’t bothered with a begging cup. A sex worker, female in appearance, shared the lethargy of the others, smoking and texting.
No one tried to solicit Colter Shaw, who wore the patina of cop.
Fifty yards up the walk, a tall man with shaggy blond hair was texting as he leaned against the concrete wall, four feet high, that separated the sidewalk from the river. He was facing the water, which was far below street level. There was no bank; the riverborders were man-made: walls of cement or the foundations of the buildings.
As he approached the man, Shaw realized two things. He might or might not have actually been texting but he was definitely using the phone for another purpose—a mirror to watch the sidewalk, focusing specifically on Shaw himself.
The other observation was that the man was armed.
Never watch the hip looking for a gun; watch the hands...
Shifting the backpack to his left shoulder, unzipping his jacket, Shaw approached. When he was near, the man slipped his phone away, turned and smiled broadly.
“Ah, ah, here is Mr. Colter Shaw!” A mild accent. Russian, Ukrainian, Belarusian. “No need for worries. I have been watching behind you on your fine stroll. No one is following. Even though are three people who might very much like to pay you visit.”
4
Never let surprise dull your awareness...
Shaw noted that the street remained unoccupied other than the weary folks he’d just passed.
The Slav was not going for a weapon.
No cars headed purposefully in his direction, ahead or behind.
Only when he assessed minimal threat—less than ten percent—did he turn fully to the man. He had an exceedingly angular face, high cheekbones and a pointed jaw. Curiously, despite the fair hair, his eyes were jet black. Shaw knew that genes could often be fickle.
The man too looked around. “How you like being here in this shithole? But who am I to talk? Where I am coming from, we have many poisoned cities. Thank you, Noble Leader! I been walking around. Is there single place here thatdoesn’tstink? I can’t find it! Okay, okay, I get to point before I get boring.”
The Slav clicked his tongue and his expression was one of admiration. “Smart, smart, what you did, Mr. Colter Shaw. Caught that thief, like mouse in a spring. Just beat me, a hair ahead. I was close on poor, sad Mr. Paul LeClaire. But you were more quick. Your bug was better than my bug.” A shrug. “Sometimes happens.
“So, what you do, Mr. Colter Shaw? You swap it for a fake andthey not have any idea.” He leaned close and Shaw tensed, but the man merely inhaled. “Battlefield smoke... Very smart of you, very smart. Arab boys go back home, hook up the S.I.T. and get Chernobyled! Ha! I am loving this.”
Shaw asked, “Who’s your buyer?”
“Oh, Mr. So and So. Or maybeMs. So and So. What you think, Mr. Colter Shaw?” He grew serious. “You think women screw you over in business world more than men? I think so. Now we talk... There is American expression.” He gazed over the river. “Talking... what? What it is? A bird.”
“Nothing to talk about. You know I’m not selling.”