You may see in movies every now and then a scene where someone falls into an open dumpster or onto an awning and is able to get up and keep going, well I can tell you that’s not how it works. I hit the open dumpster and felt like I broke every bone in my body, and for all I knew, I probably did. Laura didn’t follow me down, not that I expected her to, she’d be here all the same though, if given time
I wouldn’t give her any.
I dragged myself out of the dumpster clumsily, painfully and with both hands tied behind my back, literally. I rolled off the dumpster lip and onto the concrete which was still wet with the evening’s rain. I stared up at the window, broken and jagged. I didn’t know what was keeping Laura, maybe she thought I was dead, but I didn’t stick around to find out, I made myself scarce. I ran as fast as I could.
I somehow made it back to my house after getting a hotel doorman to cut me loose. I took a cab on my last thirty bucks, and then snuck through streetlight shadows for three blocks to avoid being seen. Maybe I was being paranoid, but then again, I knew there was at least one person out to get me, so maybe it was justified.
I hadn’t noticed it earlier but I was bleeding. My ear, having been nicked when Laura fired at me was now bleeding quite freely. I was supremely lucky I still had an ear; the bullet grazed the top, outside edge and didn’t take much with it. I’d probably have a scar though.
I cleaned myself up, showered, shaved, tossed out my old clothes, showered again since dumpsters are vile, filthy things and my hair still smelled like rancid eggs and rotten meat.
Staring into the mirror over the sink in my bathroom I saw myself, Victor Constantine, 35 years old, battered, bruised and worse for wear. Top it off with a hot little number carrying a pistol and half my former employers after my head... Tuesday hadn’t turned out to be my day, and Wednesday wouldn’t be any better.
Sleep didn't come easily that night; I spent a few solid hours in bed just laying there, full of adrenaline and paranoia. I watched an old fan turn noiselessly on the ceiling, its worn wood blades throwing shadows across the ceiling. There were distant sirens and some dogs barking far outside my window but it didn’t matter, I was too wired to worry. I paced, I thought, I did stretches... nothing worked. It wasn't until five am the next morning that I actually came off the adrenaline and fell asleep.
Late morning came and I was sore all over, stiff and was wondering why Laura hadn’t come to find me. Maybe she thought I wasn’t stupid enough to come back to my apartment. Joke’s on her I guess.
By 5:42am, Wednesday, ear bandaged and back stiff from a three story dive into a glorified trash can; I called Jerry Cruz from a payphone four blocks south of my apartment.
“Jerry, Jerry, listen Laura found me.”
“Uh-huh, and doesn’t she want you dead?”
“I’m no expert, but clue me in: Is getting shot at good or bad?”
“You’re still alive? Good, I’d say. Or lucky…” he seemed surprised.
“I’ll go with that, I had to dive out of an office window into a dumpster to get away, I’m surprised I can still walk.”
“Jesus, you gotta get out of town Vic.”
“I can’t, I need to find Viktor, and Grigory, talk this out with them.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, what are you talking about? Didn’t they try to kill you?”
“I think it’s Laura that’s got it out for me. Besides, I didn’t screw them over.”
“Of course...”
“Jerry...”
“I believe you Vic.” There was a pause before he added, “Really.”
“Good, then you could get me in contact with the guys?”
“Yeah, but Vic, this is really a bad idea, really.”
“I don’t care; set it up for me?”
Jerry was quiet for a few seconds, and then he sighed,
“Lacharité, two o’clock, I’ll do what I can.”
“Thanks.”
Lacharité was a French café across town, it’s where Jerry and I met to exchange information, or have a quick lunch. With any luck Jerry could get me in contact with the Korolev brothers before Laura caught up with me and made me six feet closer to hell.
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