Day 159 - Upside Down- Chapter 7 - (3249 words)

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UPSIDE DOWN, BACK TO FRONT

By Wayne Webb

CHAPTER 7

Before

“You know it’s not about you, you know that right?” The man looked reasonable, he held his hands ina way ythat every body language expert agreed was reasonable. He projected calm, fair and resigned. There was nothing he could do, his hands were tied. “It’s not personal, it’s business.”
“It feels pretty personal to me, yeah?” Greg is looking for the opening he needs, he knows it’s a losing battle but he can’t give up and certainly cannot be seen to be giving up. “C’mon if it’s business, then it’s business. What can I do? What can I do for you?”
“It’s not up to me, if it were you know I’d back you.” The man in the suit opens a chink in his armour, but instead of it being an opening it merely lets out another façade. “You know you’re my guy right?”
“Yeah, I know.” And now Nixon knows it’s over.
Best thing he can do is remold the relationship.
“Business is business, but our door is always open to you ready, willing and able to be there for your company. If it’s a price negotiation, an emergency run, we’ll do the ad-hoc for you – there does not have to be the contractual relatioship, cause I am your guy. I’m there.”
The man feels the desperation and in a rare moment of unsold honesty tells Greg what he needed to know, but the one thing he can’t change.
“You just don’t have the economy of scale we need. It’s a catch-22 for you.”
Greg watches him, his temper is rising in side. He can’t let it out here, it’s just not going to help.
Bottle it, push it down, let it out later. Let it simmer, let it build, let it go when you can. Hold on to it, use it when you need it.
“You don’t have the resources or the extended manpower that the chains do, the big boys who have the big boys – and they have them around the block. I mean look at this guy?” The man gestures at James walking past the window. James looks in and waves cheerfully at them, sees the look on his bosses face and smiles. He doesn’t recognise a crocodile smile when he sees one.
“He’s a good driver. He’s fast and efficient and he never misses a deadline. He doesn’t get…”
“That’s not the point Greg, that’s not the point.” The man shakes his head.
“You keep these guys on because what? You owe them something? You get them cheap? My new guys look like the forward pack, no one wants to fuck with them. No one.”
“No one fucks with my …”
“No one will either, you’re not worth it. Don’t take me the wrong way.”
It’s too late for that now.
James is filling out the paperwork on his run when Greg is out of his meeting, a big smile on his face as he hands off the shake to his visitor and the lie to each other about plans and catching up, being friends.
When the visitor has gone, the face falls to stone and a snatched hand takes the clipboard off James and examines it for mistakes.
There are none.
“You on time?”
“Yeah, a few minutes early.”
“I didn’t ask if you were early, don’t waste my time with the things you THINK I want o hear but don’t give a fuck about. On time, that’s what I need. Papers need to be done on time EVERY TIME!” there’s nothing to be angry about, just loud.
“Have you thought about the tablets?” Sam had posed the idea of moving to a digital system that would remove the need for triplicate copies and other paper based inefficiencies. It may have even saved money in the longer run, but it did require a visionand investment.
Red rag, meet bull.
“Taking the fucking money out of my pocket so you can play on your fucking I Pads? For fucks sake stop being a lazy bastard and do your fucking job for once.”
“I… yes boss.” James has already stopped listening, there’s no point.
“Why the fuck do I bother?” he mutters at full voice, wanting people to hear it, looking for the excuse, the in but there’s nothing and it’s all he can do.
Lose his temper. Lose your temper. Lose it. Don’t lose it.
Don’t give in. Get angry. Get it back, get on top.
“FUCK!” he punches a wall, but it’s not really violence any longer. It just looks like it.

After

“You’ve had enough?” Ivan is incensed.
“YOU have fucking had enough?” The implication through stress is not subtle, it’s not meant to be. Clarity is his desired outcome, not just to Manisha, but also to the men in his way. It’s Ivan’s time that is being wasted.
No one else’s matters.
“For fucks sake Manisha? What the fuck is it you have had enough of?” Ivan beligerently pokes at her, find the holes and twist the knife.
It’s a strategy that works.
“You can’t treat my brother like this. I won’t put up with it. You’re a bully.”
“A bully? A BULLY?” Ivan is building up to a dramatic point, he wants this, he has a point to make. It won’t take much more to put everything in place. “In my own house, making my own fucking decisions about my family is being a bully? Is it?”
“You can’t just threaten him. He’s my baby brother, you leave him alone or you’ll have to deal with me.”
“Really?” Almost there, dominance will be assured. Remind everyone that he’s in charge, not just here with the homeground advantage but every where.
“Your baby brother made a deal with me. He made a deal, a handshake and a promise. He comes to my house and tries to weasel out of it and you think I am a bully?”
“We’re not trying to weasel out of anything Ivan.” James is talking down to him, unintentionally.
“Shut the fuck up. If you want my opinion I’ll beat it out of you!”
“What?”
Ivan blinks and tries to straighten the line in his head, but it and his control is being elusive.
Press harder.
“Shut the fuck up. This is my house and no one tells me what to do in my house.”
“Our house, this is our house.” Manisha corrects him, now very annoyed and there’s more than an edge in her voice, it’s a cliff.
“SHUT UP.” He flecks spittle at her in hs rage as the conversation has turned from where he wanted it to be.
Press Harder.
“No FUCKING Body, Understand?” He has leaned periously close, and not understanding he has an agenda not being served Manisha leans in and reddens in her rage. She has not seen this side of him fully, it’s news to her. It’s something she doesn’t like.
Ivan’s fist has balled, but it is behind his hip, out of sight to her but obvious to her brother.
Press Harder.
The fist balls tighter, it has no direction and no focus, it’s just balling to store energy.
“Hey?” Sam pushes Ivan away, he’s a match for his size if not his ferocity. He steps in between his sister and his brother in law and puts himself in harms way, not really knowing what harm may be there.
The push has off balanced Ivan, the right fist opens, the energy rising there transfers to the left hand which balls, winds and flies in a split second, catching Sam neatly off guard, his focus on the hand now provinding Ivan’s balance.
James watches the scene in slow motion, frozen, inert.
Sam leans back with the impact, his centre of gravity changed and he stumbles backwards over his sister, clipping her shin on the way down.
The pain and the sight of her brother, floored by her husband enrages her. She still doesn’t not realise what is really going on.
She never will.
An unintelligible screech and her open hand slaps, but only the fingertips connect with Ivan’s cheek, grazing but not drawing into a scratch.
It’s not the physicality of the attempt.
It’s that it was attempted.
Ivan goes cold, this should not be happening. This is his house. HIS.
She is his wife, HIS.
What the fuck happened to change this around?
Press Harder.
James sees his hand reach into the middle of his back, into the waistband of his pants. A dramatic gesture is hidden there and like a scene from a film a gun is drawn and pointed at someone.
Now Manisha stops breathing, unsure where this is coming from, where this is going.
Then she realises, much the same as her husband.
This is her house, and her husband, holding a gun on her.
He does not shake, he does not waver, he wants control back.
Sam opens his eyes and sees the cold hard lie of his face.
Manisha moves forward to help her brother up, her face contorting in concern.
James takes a step, but is too far away.
Ivan slugs the butt of the gun down hard on the woman advancing towards him with a pained, unreadable, undeniable threat in her eyes.
Those eyes roll up as James steps closer still, too far to change the present.
Sam completes his journey upwards, his size is now momentum and that carries into his target.
Ivan wheels the gun in his hand to point the barrel at Sam, but momentum is still there and the twist of their bodies puts the gun in an odd grip and his centre of gravity is shifted, suddenly compromising him and both hands try to steady himself.
Sam has the gun, not even wrested away from his assailant.
It plucks away with the lightest of movements and transfers to his hands.
James steps in closer, a few inches from his friend and stops, to his left his enemy, across from him a downed woman, blood seeping from a wound in her left temple.
The shot is a thunderclap, he can feel the air move around him.
The immensity of the noise, the pressure in the air silences everything.
There is a wet thump.
Sam holds the gun.
Manisha is breathing raggedly but is not really conscious.
James has blood on his face, sprayed from Ivan.
Ivan has a hole where his eye should be.
It’s not centered or rounded, perfectly offset or easily described as apt.
It’s a hole where Ivan once was.
Sam says nothing and looks at the gun.
“No.” James shakes his head.,
This cannot stand.
“You didn’t do this. I did, ok.”
There’s no argument, only shock and an offer.
“I…”
“Give that to me.”
This cannot stand, it needs to change.




Day 8

Before.

“What are we calling this?”
“An accidental death.” The forensic inspector nodded in agreement to his own words as he picked through the charred remains of what was once a truck.
Now a flattened oval of ash and twisted metal.
“Where’s the … victim?” The detective asked examining the ground where he though the front of the truck would have been. The ground was a mess, and there was a few burned cars next to it, abandoned by their owners when the searing flames took hold of the truck and it was clear there was no way out. The Motorway was closed, the traffci redirected through a circuitous route through the inner bays, and on to the bridge from the side onramp.
The traffic coming the other way was crawling as the drivers peered in fascination at the accident site. Trying to comprehend, trying to find the angle to explain to their friends who have not seen first hand this ugly mess that has affected everyone so much.
It is all that can be talked about, on the radio, the television and the papers. The life of the battling Kiwi entrepreneur cut down in his prime. A pillar of his community, an employer and a risk taker. A man who did not suffer fools gladly but was willing to put his life on the line to get the job done. A man who stood by friends and was a partner, a business man and a father as well.
No one knew the real man anymore.
It was not politic to say what you knew, it was right to join the narrative. Set by the greiving widow and the distraught employees. Every thing said about him was now true.
There was no contradiction to be had there was an outline of a man left on the ground and in the public mind.
“Here, there and …” The forensic inspector pointed to an ashen lump a few feet away. “… there.” He dusted his hands and patted his thighs before straightening up, still tracing the patterns in the back with his eyes.
“There was a significant dislodgement, here and here,” He gestured with a collapsible aluminium pointer at the indicated areas of remains, “… caused when the initial explosion from the first tank pushed it to the south east, and then again when the reserve…” again an indication to a place that the detective found indistngiushable from the rest, “… pushed north and up to … land there.” Then the mishappen lump by the detective’s feet.
“As far as I can tell it’s only one body. That matches what we hear about who left in truck. The timeline fits and there’s no time spare to pick up and drop off anyone and get to this point as well. Actually, he would have to have been speeding to get this far in such a short window.” The foresnics inspector scratched his chin with the wand, absent mindedly still catalouging what he could see.
“So, we have an armoured truck. A million dollars in cash, reportedly. A dead body. The owner of the company on a job he wasn’t supposed to be on? Does this sound like the plot of a heist movie? Is it me?”
“Yes, it probably is.”
“It seems too … much.”
“You are a suspicious bastard.”
“Experience has taught me there is no such a thing as a coincidence, bad luck or the perfect storm. This smells fishy.”
“That’ll be the the fish markets, they’re just over…” again the wand points, “… there.”
A harrumph is met with a cynical laugh.
“I won’t know for sure, but.” A heavy sigh and the inspector closes his eyes, reciting from inside the darkness of his memory, the litany of evidence collected.
“There is one body, burned beyond recognition but DNA will be enough to identify.” There is evidence of a starting point, and it looks to me like an electrical fault which spread so rapidly but without and obvious accelerant. The material and safety precautions usually present in these vehicles when fireproofed – are not evident. The composition of the ash suggests and older and potentially at risk vehicle. A secondary burn is evident in the speed of the initial burn. I would hazard a guess that this truck has a history, one not addressed properly that got out of hand this time. The melted casings show the back was filled with the cash boxes, they can be separated out later and counted, but it looks right to me. The ash mixed in is a large amount of paper with foil and plastic in smaller amounts.”
“So you believe this?”
“It’s not a case of belief.”
“So?”
“This is evidence of a fire, a death and a large amount of what smells like money, burned away.”
“You know the smell of money being burned do you?”
And there was the opening that the forensics inspector was looking for.
“I’ve been married three times, and have 4 kids between two of them, I know the smell of burned money.”
The detective and the forensics inspector faced each other down.
He didn’t want to laugh.
But he did.

After

“So what can you tell me?”
“Not much. We got held up in traffic, we were a few minutes late – but not badly so. I … I don’t know why he went so … mad. I mean he could be a bit of a prick sometimes, but hey we would have made it up.”
The detective looked at Sam, a large muscled Indian man with a gentle voice and a man who would not meet his gaze.
No alarm bells rang in his mind. This guys seemed harmless, the opposite of the implied violence a man his size often inferred. It could e a cultural thing, dealing with death this way. He was non confrontational, and not guilty so much as in shock by events.
“What about the accident? What can you tell me?” the detective was jotting down some notes, not about Sam so much as thoughts about the confluence of events.
“It wasn’t the first.”
“What’s that?” the man’s volume had lowered further still when saying that.
“It was not the first fire in that truck.”
“Really?” This matched what the forensics guy had hinted at, but no need to let them know that.
“Yeah, a couple of weeks back we rescued Dave, he was the Hopper, and from that same truck, a fire had sparked in the wiring gutter that runs up the back by the left front wheel arch.”
Just where the inspector had pointed, or so he was assuming from the amorphous shape that was once man, truck and money.
“The smoke had gotten into his lungs, we called an ambulance and Greg in to check on it.”
“Where was this?”
“Up in newmarket under the overpass. Off to the side, it was late.”
“Were you driving?”
Sam blinked, he was not a driver – he was a Hopper. “No?”
“Is that a question or a statement?”
“No, I wasn’t. I was nearby. James was driving that time and he called me.”
“So you and … James… is this the same James who was in the office with you when the call came in? The same James that was driving before Greg took the truck?”
“Yes.”
The detective folded his arms, coincidences were piling up and he deifnitely did not like that.
“You know what I think?”
“No sir?” Sir, this man was so very polite. Is he the patsy here?
Is there even a crime?
“I don’t believe in coincdences. And yet we have two fires, one truck and two guys who seem to be on the scene when they happen. What do you think that means?”
“Three.”
“Three? Uhhh?”
“Three guys. James, me and Greg. James and me drive together regularly, he was filling in for Dave’s regular driver who was sick that evening, but we were meeting up for a drink. After work that is.”
“Were you?”

“Yes, we do most nights have a quick one at the end of a day, we’re…. mates. It’s a small company.”