3
John was, to most of the emergency services, a voice on the other end of the line, ordering, organizing, chasing and, very rarely, yelling at them to get where they needed to go. John’s voice was the thread that linked the emergency teams to the victims, brought them together for hopefully happy endings.
His face meant nothing. But the second he opened his mouth, every uniform in the place spun around to listen.
John wanted to scream; his heart was in his throat. But as soon as he barreled into the charge desk, his training took over, and he spoke his request quickly, firmly, in a tone that brooked no argument and ruffled no feathers.
He was aware of the stares as he was whisked up to emergency. A whispered conversation between two orderlies, and a Authorized Staff Only door was being opened for him. John strode down the corridor, his new escort struggling to keep up, as John homed in on the sound of heart monitors and sharply snapped commands.
Scott looked out of place here, the wrong coloured blues, his bulky jacket the wrong shape amid the light, sleek scrubs of the surgical staff. John diverted over, his escort melting away. “Scott?”
Scott’s head snapped around, his eyes wide and red-rimmed, his breathing shallow and shaky. John took him by the shoulders, gently turning him so they stood fully face to face. “Talk to me,” John said, his voice dropping automatically into a work register.
“They took him into the operating room. Gordon…they’re letting Gordon observe, so he’s not alone. He said it shouldn’t be long, that I should wait..”
He trailed off, and John tried a different tack. “What happened?”
“Street racing. A car crash.” Even as he watched, John saw Scott flicker between being a cop and being a brother. “Those were some souped up cars, Johnny. Seriously expensive, not the usual rust buckets those kids race. Kayo thinks so. I’ve sent her to make sure. We need evidence.”
“Evidence for what?”
Scott’s eyes darkened. “They hurt Alan, John. Whoever they are, they put him in that car and now he’s in surgery. They hurt him, and when I find them, I’m going to throw the book at them so hard they’re never getting back up.” Scott blinked, looking over John’s shoulder. “Where’s Grandma? And Virgil?”
John felt his lips thin. “I asked Penny from downstairs to sit in with Grandma. I…I didn’t want her to worry, and she can’t spend a night in the waiting room, not with how she’s feeling right now.” John took a deep, steadying breath. “And Virgil went out to look for Alan, and now I can’t reach him on his phone.”
Scott’s expression crumpled. “Well—shit.”
Virgil peered out the window. “You’re sure this is where he gets off?”
The bus driver snorted. “Hard to forget. He usually walks off that way.”
He pointed up the street, down towards a row of dark, sketchy-looking buildings. Virgil could hear Scott’s voice in his head telling him stories of stupid kids wandering places they shouldn’t and ending up hurt or worse. He hoped he wasn’t about to become one of those stories.
He hoped Alan hadn’t become one tonight.
“You want me to wait?” the bus driver asked as Virgil stepped off.
Part of Virgil wanted to say yes, but he shook his head. “I’ll be fine. Thanks.”
The driver didn’t seem convinced, but he nodded. “Be careful, kid.”
“Will do,” Virgil said, and headed up the street.
If he’d thought it looked bad from the bus, it looked even worse up close. Most of the buildings were clearly abandoned, covered in graffiti and God only knew what else. A few had lights on, but Virgil avoided them, hoping that his kid brother wasn’t stupid enough to wander into places like that. Another had a man standing out front as if acting like a bouncer and he looked seriously pissed. Virgil carefully stayed on the other side of the street.
At the end of that block, there was a garage, and one of the doors was open. The lights were on inside, and soft classical music played inside. Virgil took a deep breath and prayed that he wasn’t about to walk into a cover for a mafia or crime ring before sticking his head in.
“Hello?”
There was a clang like someone dropped metal on the ground and a strangled shout. Virgil stepped into the garage cautiously, looking around. He took another step and then jumped backwards as a head appeared from behind the car closest to him.
“Jesus,” he breathed. For a second, they just stared at each other; the other man was clearly as surprised as Virgil was, dressed in a canvas coverall stained with oil and grease. His hands, in spite of this, were remarkably clean.
Finally, the man spoke. “Can I h-help you?”
“Uh,” Virgil had to think for a moment to remember why he was there. “Maybe. I’m looking for my brother.”
The man studied him for a moment. “Hopefully you d-d-don’t find him here.”
Virgil blinked at him, caught off-guard. “What do you mean by that?”
“You should p-probably go,” the man said. “This isn’t the k-k-kind of place you want to be seen.”
“Wait,” Virgil said, still confused. “Listen, my little brother heads out this way sometimes, this is him,” he pulled out his phone to pull up the picture, only to see a black screen. Shit, he should have charged it. “Uh, never mind. He’s about this tall, blond, answers to Alan?”
“Alan?” the man said, straightening up. “Why are you l-looking for Alan?”
“I just told you, he’s my little brother,” Virgil said, trying to reign in his frustration. “Is he here?” He looked around, somewhat hoping to see Alan pop up from behind one of the other cars.
As empty as the garage was, this seemed as stupid a question as “Why are you looking for Alan?” and the man in the coverall gave him an appropriately bewildered look. “N-no, he’s at the race,” he said, as though explaining something obvious.
“Race?” Virgil asked. “What race?”
“You don’t know?” the man looked surprised. “I t-t-thought…this explains a lot.”
“What does that mean?” Virgil demanded.
“He’s one of my b-b-boss’ drivers,” the man said. “He’s racing right n-now.”
Virgil stared at him. Things were starting to click in his mind. “Alan’s been racing?”
“Y-yes,” the man said. He held out his hand, which Virgil shook automatically. “I’m Brains.”
“Virgil.”
“The races u-usually end around eleven,” Brains said. “I’ll l-l-let Alan know you were here.”
“Wait, I’m not leaving,” Virgil said. “He’s been street racing? Scott’s going to kill him. I’m going to kill him.”
“Y-y-you can’t stay here,” Brains said, suddenly looking anxious. “If my b-boss sees you here a-a-and hears you’re asking questions, it’ll c-cause trouble.”
“I’m not leaving without Alan,” Virgil said stubbornly. Street racing. He’d known Alan had been up to something, but he hadn’t expected it to be so stupid and dangerous. And illegal. He couldn’t believe this.
“You d-don’t understand,” Brains said, moving around the car to stand in front of Virgil. “He’s n-n-not someone you want to make angry. P-please, I’ll let Alan know you were here, but -.”
“If you let him know I was here, he’ll run for it,” Virgil said. “No, it’s better if I wait.”
Brains opened his mouth, clearly ready to argue, but one of the garage doors on the side of the building started opening. Brains whirled around, then turned back to Virgil. Then he grabbed Virgil’s arm and pulled him to the workspace near them, pushing him in the direction of the desk.
“Hide,” he whispered. “D-d-don’t let him know you’re here.”
Virgil, feeling utterly ridiculous, did as told, folding himself under the desk. He could hear a car engine revving as it entered the garage, and wondered idly what kind of engine purred in that way. He almost wanted to peek out to see it.
“You’re b-b-back early,” Brains said after the car engine shut off.
“Race was a bust,” another, deeper voice said. “Lemaire’s kid lost traction, took out half the cars, including ours. Tracy probably got picked up, if he’s even in one piece.”
Virgil’s blood ran cold. Alan.
Brains tried through willpower alone not to look where he’d stashed Alan’s brother. The Boss in his best mood wasn’t the kind of man to tolerate interlopers.
Now? Brains shuddered to think what he might do.
There was a lot of money on that race, and Brains had wanted for nothing as he had souped up each of the cars. The vehicles were an investment in The Mechanic’s business, and if Brandon had not only crashed but wiped out, then that was a lot of money gone.
It wasn’t as if there was insurance for underground street races.
An angry snapping of fingers brought Brains back to the present. “I need you to pack up shop,” came the snapped order that Brains was expecting. “There were cops all over the scene, we can’t have them snooping around, not now.”
Brains nodded frantically, not trusting his voice.
At least his being speechless and panicky was normal behaviour around the Boss. With a disgusted noise, he stormed off and left Brains alone.
Brains waited until he heard the far doors bang, the roar of a motor. Only then did he relax. “Y-you can c-come out now,” he murmured, taking off his glasses to rub his tired eyes.
Alan’s brother was bigger, and taller, and utterly furious, the kind of anger Brains recognized as being driven by fear. The worst kind. “Talk,” he ordered.
Brains moved to his computers, tucking his glasses back onto his nose. The system shutdown took a while, it was the first step in his teardown pattern. “You p-probably know as much as I d-do now,” Brains said tiredly. The computer beeped, a countdown appearing on screen as Brains activated the appropriate subroutine. “L-listen, I p-put in every safety device I can sneak p-pass the B-Boss,” he stammered, his anxiety already growing. He should know better by now not to get too close to the drivers. Crash or arrest, or just burned by the Mechanic, they never stuck around for long. “G-g-go find your brother. I h-hope he’s okay, really I d-do.”
Virgil stared at him for a long time. “Are you going to be okay?”
Brains blinked, stunned.
No-one had ever asked him that before.
Rent Day Blues 