Torque by Glenn Muller

to find a
payphone—and maybe a mailbox. He heard sirens approaching. The
gun-toting goons wouldn’t stick around for that sort of attention,
and neither would he. His exit from the alley was a few blocks from
the highway which he took to a truck stop a few kilometres east. He
parked as inconspicuously as anyone could park a car that had been
chummy with a shotgun and headed for the restaurant’s bright and
inviting entrance.
    There were a few patrons, most of them taking
a break from the road. A Caribbean-looking trucker with dreadlocks
occupied both the payphones—leaning on one while talking on the
other. Svoljsak caught part of the conversation as he passed:
    “… and they said they haven’t been paid for
that load … Yeah, Mon … I know that … but they won't let me take it
away … Okay … Okay … so what should I do?”
    He found an empty booth that gave him a view
of the entrance and the phones, and slumped into it. Jeans and an
apron appeared beside him and he looked up to see the waitress.
Average looking and probably in her forties, her expression was
neutral as she wiped the table.
    “Coffee?”
    He cradled the cup, his rough tar-stained
fingers absorbing the therapeutic warmth. The swirling cream in the
black liquid was hypnotic and his mind strayed to the woman who had
set him on this path. She remained as mysterious as she was
enigmatic and not knowing her full name wasn’t all that important
in this game. In fact, for Svoljsak, it had enhanced their
encounters rather than detracting from them.
    Their only meeting after Hanlon Place had
been on the site of a vacant strip mall still under construction.
It had been a Sunday yet Brittany wore corporate attire; a dark
purple skirt and short jacket over a blouse a shade lighter. She'd
explained the location was convenient since she had to check it out
for a client.
    Within the confines of freshly installed
wallboard and the papered-over windows of one of the units, details
of the heist had been delivered in a sterile monotone.
Businesslike, though not exactly what he’d prepped himself for.
    “Do you need me to repeat anything?”
    “No.”
    “I’ll call you tomorrow night about the car.
Stay by your phone because if I get an answering machine I’m
hanging up.”
    “Understood.”
    Then, without taking her eyes from his, she’d
simply unbuttoned her blouse and stepped forward. The dry skin of
his fingers had caught on the lace of her bra until he found the
release between her breasts. Her nipples hardened beneath his
thumbs and after a moment her hands reached down to unfasten his
slacks. Kneeling before him with one knee on the dusty floor she
had tugged on the waistband of his briefs, and the memory of his
fingers woven into her long dark hair aroused him, now, as her
mouth had, then.
    “Ready to order?” the waitress was back.
    “Oh. Yes. Sausage and eggs.” He hoped his
expression hadn’t given away the nature of his thoughts.
    “White or brown toast?”
    “White.”
    The waitress refilled his cup and went to the
kitchen. Over at the phones the trucker's conversation had just
ended. Apparently unsatisfactorily, for the dreadlocks shook all
the way to the washrooms.
     

 
     
    CHAPTER
15
     
    Svoljsak slid from the booth and dredged a
few coins from his pocket. Among them was the small Peruvian
talisman he carried for luck. He stood it on the metal shelf,
slotted coins into the box, and began punching numbers.
    There were two rings before she answered.
    “Tell me it’s you.” The voice that blew into
his ear had a sensual quality that conjured up an image of satin
sheets and silk pyjamas.
    “Yeah. It’s me!” His throat felt raspy. He
put his hand over the mouthpiece and coughed.
    “Well. Did you get it?”
    That was not so alluring. Svoljsak’s fantasy
dissolved.
    “Of course I got it,” he replied with a flash
of annoyance. “It’s right here.”
    There was silence on the other end. She
wouldn’t know of the attack.