The Fall Guy Read online

  THE FALL GUY

  By Simon Wood

  This book is comprised of works of fiction. All names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are factiously used. Any semblance to actual persons, living or dead, real events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  © 2006 Simon Wood. All rights reserved.

  Cover art: Robert Pratten © 2010

  About the Author:

  Simon Wood is an ex-racecar driver, a licensed pilot and an occasional private investigator. He's had over 150 stories and articles published. His short fiction has appeared in a variety of magazines anthologies, such as Seattle Noir, Thriller 2 and Woman’s World. He's a frequent contributor to Writer's Digest. He's the Anthony Award winning author of Working Stiffs, Accidents Waiting to Happen, Paying the Piper, We All Fall Down and Terminated. Curious people can learn more at www.simonwood.net.

  Todd Collins has failed in every job he's ever undertaken, but that all changes when he backs his jalopy in a shiny, new Porsche belonging to a drug dealer. When the police stop the drug dealer for a broken taillight that Todd has caused and discover a cocaine shipment, a West Coast kingpin holds Todd responsible. On the run from organized crime, Todd discovers his true calling.

  What They Are Saying About The Fall Guy:

  “Elmore Leonard would be proud to have written this twisty, action-packed tale.”

  — Cemetery Dance

  “Tightly crafted. Wood delivers the goods!”

  — Reviewing The Evidence

  “For a novice reader of Wood's work, this is an excellent place to start.”

  — Hellnotes

  “Crime hasn't been this much fun or unpredictable since the time second-story man John Dortmunder packed himself into a dishwasher.”

  — The Drowning Machine

  THE FALL GUY

  Part One: Fender Bender

  Part Two: Detour

  Part Three: Trading Up

  Part Four: He Said, She Said

  Part Five: The Small Man

  Excerpt from Simon Wood’s TERMINATED

  Excerpt from Simon Wood’s WE ALL FALL DOWN

  THE FALL GUY

  PART ONE: FENDER BENDER

  Todd raced back to his car, cursing the ATM all the way. Why was there always a line? His job packing boxes for a firm in Oakland wasn’t much, but he didn’t want to lose it by being late again. They’d find a way of firing him sooner or later anyway. Although a monkey could do his job, they’d be better off hiring one. His workmanship, even by his own admission, sucked. But this was his plight. When it came to him and jobs, they never lasted. Okay, he lacked the interest, but irrespective, he also lacked the skill set for any job he undertook.

  He hopped back into his car, glad not to see a parking ticket glued to the windshield, and crunched it into reverse. The Honda Accord was way overdue for an overhaul, although an overhaul wouldn’t do much for its ancient transmission. It was toast. Half the time, he didn’t know what gear he was selecting. The Accord stuttered in the parking spot.

  “Get in there, damn it.”

  Gears snarled as Todd struggled to find a forward gear. He jumped off the clutch and the car leapt backwards, slamming into a Porsche Boxster’s headlight.

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  His antics had drawn quite a crowd and they’d all witnessed his screw-up. Nowhere to run, he thought. He found first gear without effort this time and eased the Accord forward to assess the extent of the damage.

  Everyone had an opinion and had no problem telling him where he’d gone wrong and how much it was going to cost him. He crouched in front of the Porsche and picked at the broken headlight and buckled bumper. There was a couple hundred dollars of damage to the average car, but on the German exotic, he was looking at thousands. His car, the piece of shit that it was, didn’t exhibit any signs of damage—just like Todd, who didn’t exhibit any signs of insurance.

  “Does anyone know who the owner is?” Todd asked.

  No one did.

  “You’ll have to wait,” someone suggested.

  “I can’t. I’m late for work.”

  “I don’t think you have much choice,” someone else said.

  “I can’t. I’ve been late twice this week already.” Todd delved inside his car for a scrap of paper and a pen. “I’ll leave a note.”

  He wrote: People think I’m leaving you my contact and insurance details. I’m not. Sorry.

  Todd folded up his note, wrote sorry on the outside and stuck it under the windshield wiper. He shrugged, hopped inside the Accord and raced off.

  He felt guilty for shafting the Porsche driver, but at the same time, he was buzzing with the thrill of his lawlessness and his speedometer showed it. He was accelerating past forty-five on Telegraph. He took a deep breath and eased off the gas.

  In the scheme of things, what he’d done wasn’t so bad. It was an accident and it was more likely the Porsche driver’s insurance could afford the repairs than he could. Anyway, with a car like that, he thought, you’re asking for trouble. Todd pulled into his employer’s parking lot safe in the knowledge that the matter was over.

  ***

  Todd liked to take Sunday mornings easy. He lounged in bed until ten then took a walk to the newsstand to pick up the Sunday paper. He wandered back through the apartment complex, pulling out the color supplement and flicking through the magazine, ignoring the front-page splash about some big drug bust. He took a different route back to his apartment and passed close to his assigned parking space. He slowed as he got close to his car. At first, he’d thought his windows had steamed up overnight, but the weather conditions hadn’t been right for that. As he closed in, he realized he’d been way off. Every one of the Accord’s windows had been smashed and all four tires had been slashed. He ran a hand over the scarred paintwork. A hook end of a crowbar protruded from the front windshield, and a note was sticking out from under a wiper. He pulled it out and read it. “Guess who?” it said.

  Todd didn’t need to guess. He knew who had done the damage. It was the Porsche owner. Todd hadn’t forgotten about the fender bender, but it had been days since it happened and he thought it was over, a stunt that would dissolve in his memory over time. Well, he just found out his stunt was insoluble.

  He’d screwed up this time. Someone must have taken down his license plate before he’d driven away. He was going to pay big for this one. He tugged out the crowbar and tossed it on the backseat through a glassless side window.

  Returning to his apartment, a thought dogged him. Someone may have reported him to the police or Porsche driver, but how did the Porsche driver know where he lived? He opened the door to his apartment.

  “Mr. Todd Collins, I presume,” the small man said, getting up from Todd’s couch.

  Two linebacker types, one black, the other Hispanic, flanked the small man. The small man seemed genial, but the linebackers looked ready to tear Todd’s head off. He could have bolted, but judging by the bulges under the three men’s jackets, he didn’t expect to get far. He guessed he was meeting the owner of the Porsche.

  “I’m Todd Collins.” Todd stepped inside the apartment and closed the door.

  “Do you know who I am?” the small man asked.

  Todd went to say, “The Porsche owner,” but decided against it. He thought it best not to antagonize the situation any more than he had already. He shook his head, finding that his vocal chords had failed him.

  “Good. That makes things simpler. It’s probably not a good idea that you do. It’s only important that I know who you are. Understand?”

  Todd nodded.

  “I bet you’re wishing you’d left your insurance details now, aren’t you?” the small man
said.

  “I can make up for it. I can pay.”

  The small man held up a hand and shook his head. “It’s far too late for that.” He looked Todd up and down. “Besides, I doubt you could afford to pay. The damage is incidental, but the consequences of your misdemeanor have been severe. Put the newspaper down.”

  Todd, confused at first, hesitated before doing as instructed. He placed the newspaper on the chipped coffee table. The small man separated the newspaper from the supplements and opened it out. He tapped the front page with the back of his hand.

  “See what you’ve done.”

  Todd glanced at the headline: DRUG DEALER BUSTED DURING ROUTINE TRAFFIC STOP.

  “The car you hit belongs to an employee of mine. Driving home the other night, he was pulled over for a busted headlight. The cops discovered two kilos of cocaine in his possession. He’s in a lot of trouble and I’m minus an employee, not to mention a lot of money. Do you see now? Do you see what you’ve done and why it has led us to your door?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s not important.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to know. But I’ve lost a valuable employee who had a job to do. Now he can’t do it. This is where you come in.” The small man stabbed a finger in Todd’s direction.

  Todd’s stomach twitched. He didn’t like what was coming. He knew it was retribution for what he’d done, but it wasn’t the kind he wanted. Points on his license and a fine he could accept. He’d even take a beating. But the small man’s kind of retribution filled Todd with dread.

  “Me?” Todd stammered.

  “Yes. You’ll have to fill in.”

  The linebackers wrinkled their noses. They knew Todd wasn’t the right man for the job and he agreed with them.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  The small man beamed. “That’s the attitude. These two said I was making a mistake.”

  The linebackers frowned.

  The small man dug in his pocket and threw a set of keys to Todd. Todd caught them and examined them.

  “Those fit a black Jag. You’ll find it outside Danko’s restaurant in the city. Bring it to me in Oakland.”

  “When?”

  “Oh, I like you. I debated about just beating the crap out of you, but I wanted to give you a chance to make up for your error and you’ve done that. You’ve assessed the situation and decided to stand by your mistake. I admire that.” The small man stood and dropped a note on Todd’s newspaper. “Bring the Jag to me tonight. Addresses are on the paper. See you at midnight.”

  The black linebacker brushed Todd aside to open the door. It was a petty gesture, but Todd wasn’t going to tell him that.

  Todd grabbed the small man’s arm on his way out. The small man stared at Todd, his look piercing. Todd knew enough not to touch him, but he didn’t care. He knew what was being asked of him was illegal. He just needed to know how illegal.

  “Will I find drugs in that car?” Todd demanded.

  The linebackers stiffened. The small man nodded at his arm. Todd released his grasp.

  “Unfortunately, you don’t have a choice, Todd,” the small man said, his tone barbed. “Be at the Oakland address at midnight.”

  ***

  Todd resorted to public transportation to get him into San Francisco, seeing as the linebackers had finished off the Accord. He was looking at a couple of thousand to replace the tires and windshield. It was cheaper to get another car.

  A combination of BART, MUNI and good old-fashioned walking brought him out on the corner of Bush and Powell. Danko’s was classy and unique for the city. It had its own parking lot. Strictly, it wasn’t a parking lot. To the right of the restaurant was a dead end alley, which had been cordoned off to make a parking lot. Two valets protected it. They looked as if they were relations of the small man’s linebackers. Obviously, the small man was making Todd work hard to make up for the fender bender. It wasn’t going to be easy, but it was doable.

  He breezed on by the restaurant, counting his steps, then turned right at the next block onto Powell. He turned right at the next cross street and counted his steps again. When he counted eighty-seven, he stopped in front of a narrow apartment block that looked squeezed by its neighbors. The door was locked, but there was a buzzer entry system. Todd pressed the first one his finger fell on.

  “Yes,” a woman answered.

  “Pizza delivery,” Todd said.

  “We didn’t order any pizza,” she barked.

  “Sorry, is this 3A?”

  “No, 4A, moron.”

  “Sorry. Can you buzz me in?”

  She growled and the door clicked.

  Todd let himself in and bounded up the first flight of stairs. The good news, as he had hoped, was the landing window opened out onto the restaurant’s alley parking lot. The bad news was that there were no fire escapes. They were all on the front of the building. He flicked the safety latches and slid the window open. Surprisingly, it opened with ease.

  One of the valets trotted up the alley to collect a Range Rover. Todd waited until the SUV and owner were reunited, then he climbed onto the ledge and jumped out. He connected hard with the ground. Electricity crackled through his legs, intensifying in his groin. He bit back a scream and crumpled onto his knees. The valets didn’t notice him. They were too busy hustling for a tip. Todd crawled behind the nearest car to survey the lot.

  Todd had a new problem. There were two black Jags in the parking lot, one a XK8, the other an S-type. The small man had told him to pick up a black Jag, but he hadn’t told him the model or license number. He fumbled in his pocket for the keys. He aimed the remote in the direction of both cars and pressed the unlock button. The S-type chirped and blinked its lights. The valets whipped around at the noise. Todd burst out of the shadows, charging for the Jag. The valets did likewise. Todd was lucky on two counts. First, the valets were big, but not fast, and second, he was closer.

  He reached the car, dived in front of the wheel and gunned the engine, all before the valets were halfway to him. He cranked the steering and hit the gas. The Jag leapt forward, smearing its fender across the back of a Lincoln Navigator, setting off its alarm. The Jag bounced off another car before he gained control.

  One of the valets raced back to the gates while the other blocked the alley with his body. He made himself wide by crouching and splaying out his arms. If they were playing chicken, Todd knew he had the upper hand and floored the gas.

  “Time to jump, buddy,” Todd said grinning.

  Todd’s grin slipped when he realized the second before he hit the guy that the valet wasn’t going anywhere. He smashed into the windshield and disappeared over the roof.

  The remaining valet had closed the gates, but hadn’t locked them and Todd blasted them open. They slammed back against the side of the restaurant, busting its neon sign. Todd jumped on the brakes to prevent the Jag from slamming into the apartment block opposite. Traffic slithered to a screaming halt and he floored the gas pedal, fishtailing down the street and jumping the first red light he hit.

  His heart out-revved the S-type. Neat adrenaline raced through his veins and sweat poured off him. Heading towards the Bay Bridge, his pipe wrench grip on the steering wheel softened and his foot eased off the gas.

  He laughed. His panic and fear changed into exhilaration and excitement. His crime-fueled buzz was hard to deny. He liked being a criminal. It beat stacking boxes.

  ***

  The drop off point was in Oakland’s warehouse district, near the rejuvenated Jack London Square, except the address wasn’t in the fancier end of the neighborhood. Todd pulled up in front of a whitewashed building that was in desperate need of a fresh coat. The building had an address, but no sign giving any clues as to its business.

  Todd got out of the Jag and banged on the rollup door. Before he was finished banging, the door retracted. He hopped back into the S-type and drove the car in.

  The warehous
e’s interior was in marginally better condition than the exterior, but was well lit. The place was barren, except for a scattered collection of Snap-On tool chests and half a dozen car lifts. Cars Todd couldn’t afford occupied the lifts. The small man stood in the middle of the warehouse floor with the familiar linebackers and a few new friends. Todd parked and got out.

  “Christ! What the hell have you been up to?” The small man examined the busted headlight and scarred paintwork. “Do you do this to all the cars you drive, or just mine?”

  The rollup door closed with a bang. The noise echoed off the walls.

  “It wasn’t easy getting the car out. You didn’t say anything about stealing it.”

  “I didn’t say anything about smashing it up either. Or were you just trying to impress me?”

  “Sorry.” Todd didn’t know what else to say.

  The small man waved the issue aside. “Don’t worry, I just wanted the car back. The condition is unimportant. Dalton, park that thing.”

  The black linebacker shifted the Jag over to the lifts and the rest of the hired help set about stripping the car.

  “Are we square? Can I go?” Todd sounded tired, more tired than he felt.

  “Not yet.” The small man patted Todd on the shoulder. “You’re close. There’s just one more thing before accounts are squared away. Vasquez, give him the keys.”

  The Hispanic linebacker tossed a set of keys to Todd and he caught them.

  “Those fit that Lexus over there. I want you to drive it to Dallas.”

  “Texas?”

  “The one and only. Don’t look so worried. This job is a lot easier than the last one. All you have to do is drop it off at Ruskin’s. It’s a dealership. Your contact is Charlie Ruskin. Then you’re done and our business is concluded.”

  “That’s a good two day drive. I can’t do that. I have a job.”