The Dealbreaker
by Anthony Neil Smith
Copyright © 2001



I brought a ’98 Nissan Pathfinder to Wal Mart for an oil change, just like I had said I would, and while I sat in the waiting area watching a fuzzy soap opera on a b&w TV, one of the mechanics—a tall white guy with loose curly hair, grease-dirty shirt with GEORGE on the tag—stepped over to me with a clipboard and said, "Mr. Dreier, can I talk to you for a minute?"

I followed him into the bay where the Pathfinder I’d lifted only an hour before was parked, hood open. The drill noise, amplified by cinder block and slick stone floor, meant we had to lean close to keep it normal-talk volume. I’d planned for this place, but I hadn’t counted on the drill bothering me so much. This could have damaged my hearing. I covered the ear George wasn’t talking to.

"You bring it with you?" George said.

"Like I’d have it on me walking into Wal Mart? Or leave it in the car so you can get it without paying?"

We were talking about a gun.

I said, "Right now, you give me half. That buys you a place and time for tonight. Show up with the rest."

George nodded, like he was analyzing my method. Idiot.

I said, "Well?"

"How much?"

Deep sigh from me, then, "Give. I’ll count. Nod means yes, shake means no."

A Buick drove into the next bay and nearly made me take a dump in my pants and take off at a dead run, but I caught the Wal Mart shirt on the driver. Kept the cool. The brakes squealed and I winced. Even worse on my ears.

George and I bent underneath the hood, endured hot oil odor, and George pulled a crumpled wad of cash from his shirt pocket. He took a hundred bill, two twenties and a ten, then tossed them on the brake fluid box. 

I shook my head. Trying to stiff me twenty-five. He shrugged, reached into his pants pocket, found a twenty and five ones. What a joke. I picked up the bills, nodded and said, "You know the duck pond in front of the hospital, right? Be there tonight at eight. Go to the middle of the bridge. Stay there until I show up." 

I turned and walked back into Wal Mart. I bought a Whitney CD for my girlfriend Gloria—pop music wasn't my taste, but I never found hard bop CDs at Wal Mart. Twenty minutes later, they were done with the Nissan, so I drove it back to the parking lot I had taken it from, got in my own car and drove away. Guy can’t complain about a free oil change, can he?

*

I was watching the pond from an empty third floor hospital room that night from seven onward. This George showed up with five friends, all spreading out around the pond, and at the ends of the narrow footbridge that led from a strip of parking near the highway, spanned the pond, then met the steps to the hospital entrance. What a beautiful ambush.

George had come through an older source, one I had forgotten, really. The channel seemed secure, so I took the risk. But seeing this posse, I wondered if there had been a compromise in my system. I should have thought Abort! Abort! Danger, Will Robinson! But the adrenaline was going. I saw my reflection in the window: big "got a new toy" eyes, bald black head, Cheshire Cat teeth. Looked like it would be fun. Kamikaze? Death wish? Maybe, maybe not. Call it my own personal extreme sport.

I shadow jabbed at warm air and hopped in place. I was wired. I was ready. So I sneaked out of the room, passed open doors where TV noise blended with heart monitors, passed wheelchair patients and nurses in pink scrubs. Took the elevator down.

The gun I had brought for George just in case it was a real sale was a Sig Sauer 9mm, beautiful piece. Registered to some guy’s name from the Gulf Coast phone book, faked papers and all that. My personal piece was an S&W .40. In the elevator hurtling down (my back to the security camera), I made sure the .40 was ready with a bullet in the chamber. I’d need to pinpoint and squeeze off a whole magazine in flashbulb time, kill those guys quickly.

Out the front door, across the driveway to the steps—took them in threes—and George was surprised because it’s like magic I appeared, suddenly beside him leaning on the rail and nodding a What’s up. We had nice evening weather: spring breeze but mild, my skin all itchy with allergies.

His friends were staring from all points, like a homing beacon had kicked in.

"We going to do this?" George said.

"I’m sorry, but I’m here to feed the ducks."

He turned a little towards me. "Don’t mess with me, man. We had business to finish. Show me the gun, I’ll hand over the cash."

A gull landed on the rail, followed by another beside it. A train of ducks flowed under the bridge. I had to make a decision—which gun would I grab? There wasn’t any rationale for it. No proof. Going by gut alone. And I probably wasn’t sure until the last hundredth of a second.

I reached for my .40. Pulled it out, held it to George’s stomach and fired. The stomach made a good muffle. His face wrinkled up fiercely and he grabbed my arms, tried to hold on. My hand, my shirt, my jeans were soaked slick.

"Jesus," he said like he meant it. I wanted away, but he was holding on to be the hero so that even in grave distress, his comrades could catch me. I spun my head to check my watchers. All of them sprinting towards the bridge, guns drawn but not taking me down. That was what I didn’t get, but bless them anyway.

I kicked George off me. He flopped over and knocked the his head against the concrete. The first guy, Chinese-looking, was almost on me, but I got the gun straightened out. Winged his thigh. He tried to buck up, but c’mon. Really.

I ran the way he had come from thinking there’d be one less coming from that way. Already heard some hardcore shouts from behind me, but didn’t look. In front of me was freedom, a highway, the train tracks, a subdivision, and I could slide out from under their noses like I was beige.

I didn’t see what I missed until he had his arms around me, this huge black bastard who looked like a WWF contender. See, I was a flurry and the other guys were flurries so I was looking for other flurries, but this guy stood rock still like he wasn’t even a part of the posse, tossing crackers to ducks and gulls, until I’m right there on him at the end of the bridge. He held the gun hand and wrapped these monster-pumped arms around my chest so I couldn’t breath. I fought and kicked, but started fading out.

Before the nap, I caught another look down the bridge, where two of George’s friends helped the guy to his feet, started walking him my way. I thought, There’s a hospital right there. What are you doing? The injured guy limped behind them. All of them looked shocked at me instead of angry. 

The big guy holding me said, "Jesus, Collins, look at what you did."

Like he was talking to me, but my name’s not Collins. It’s Dreier.

Big guy carried me to a waiting van. The two guys holding George helped him into the van, then took the driver and shotgun positions. Up close, I saw the wounded Chinese guy had a thin mustache. He stared, me fading further and further, and said, "What’s happened to you, Collins?"

I thought, I’m not that guy.

Then he pulled a syringe from his pocket, popped the plastic cap off, and stung my arm, pushed in something smooth that kicked my ass. I heard echoing sirens, then Let’s get out of here, and then it all felt like a Tilt-a-Whirl.

*

I came to at the island of a nice kitchen done up in country blue and natural wood. I was on a high stool, face down on tile next to a Lazy Susan with salt & pepper shakers, a coffee cup stuffed with Sweet & Low packets. My hands were tied behind me, and when I tried to lift myself, a strong hand clasped my shoulder and helped me. I saw the guys who helped George to the van, and guessed the other one behind me was the guy who squeezed my breath away.

"What about George?" I said.

One of the guys shook his head, his big nose. "Doc’s in with him right now. We don’t know if he’ll make it."

"I’m sorry," I said, expecting anger or a bruising. But that didn’t happen.

All I got was, "Maybe when this is over, you’ll feel worse. You and George go way back, you know."

Big Guy rustled behind me. "That’s enough. Doc said to wait until after."

"I don’t know George. Today was my first look," I said.

The big-nosed one who spoke before wasn’t making the same mistake again.

But there was faint talk coming from the closed wooden slatted door on my left. The guys in the kitchen tried to look respectful as the voices grew louder. The door opened, and in walked a Chinese guy in a khaki suit, speaking Chinese to the one I had shot, now with a taped up leg and a crutch. They stared at me a moment. More talk. The khaki-suited guy was in his early thirties, handsome if you notice those things, Hollywood-styled black hair long in front. Glasses, wire-rimmed, small octagonal lenses. 

Then in English, the khaki-suited guy said, "Please leave me and Mr. Collins alone now."

The big guy behind me said, "Doc, I’d prefer to stay just in case—"

"Not necessary. He’s still the same man." Doc took a seat on the stool opposite mine. 

Jacobs and the other thugs mumbled Yessirs and left the kitchen. The injured Chinese guy leaned against the refrigerator. Doc pushed his coat back and yanked two guns from his waistband—my .40 and the Sig. Doc pulled the magazines, racked them back to eject the bullets in the chambers, then laid them side by side on the island.

"These both have numbers on them. They’re traceable," Doc said.

"The Sig is faked, just to keep wheels spinning. The other one is mine. Never thought about it before."

"So, why’d you shoot George?"

I shrugged. "Intuition?"

That put a slight grin on Doc’s face.

I looked out a side window, but all I saw was a generic suburban hedge and darkness. Doc snapped his fingers in my face.

"Your name is Dreier," he said.

"I think you’re the first one of this bunch to get it right."

"It’s not so easy. See, these men call you ‘Collins’ because that is who you are. You used to be their colleague. And my partner, as well."

What a crock. The whole thing was a steaming wet pile. And I suppose that was what my expression got across to him.

"And you don’t remember one bit of that life, do you? I’ve been checking on you for months now, thought we had lost you for good until that bust you were spotted at back in the winter. It had been five years since I’d seen you."

"This is all a big mistake, really. I don’t know any of you."

Doc cocked his head to the side. "Wally. Wally Collins. You don’t remember at all. It’s me, man. Doc. Doc Kim. Buddies. Partners."

I would have remembered anything they wanted me to if it meant I could walk out of there, but playing along would mean a pop quiz on the details, and I really didn’t know 

Doc past his reputation. 

I shook my head. "I’m sorry. I wish I could be him for you, but that’s not me."

He sighed and reached into his coat pocket. I braced myself for another needle, but Doc came out with an envelope. He opened the flap and emptied two photographs onto the table, lined them between the guns. One was a head shot of a beautiful light-skinned black woman, hair pulled back, smiling, big thrilled eyes. The other was of the same woman, but with a young boy beside her. He had a touch of fuzzy hair up top. Huge smile.

"You remember? Her name’s Tamara. His name’s Hank."

"After Hank Aaron," I said.

Doc’s mouth went wide. "Yes! Exactly."

I kept my gaze on the photo. "I was just guessing."

The Chinese guy at the refrigerator had wandered closer, looking at me like I was a zoo exhibit. I craned my neck for another glance out the windows. Any little details to identify?

Doc said, "Tamara’s your wife. Hank’s your son. I bet you knew I was going to say that."

Still craning. "I had a feeling, yeah."

More snapped fingers. "Pay attention. I need your concentration."

"You don’t need anything from me. What you need to do is to apologize for getting the wrong guy dragged in here." I leaned forward and sneered, shot some imaginary Heat Ray vision right into his forehead. I wanted to provoke, get him to slap my face, leave the room for five minutes. Anything so I could buy time. All I needed was time.

But this wasn’t that type of interrogation.

Doc said, "We know it wasn’t amnesia, or a blow to the head. I have to believe it was brainwashing. Like religious cults use, or like they did to Patty Hearst. But it can all be deprogrammed, just opposite as it was put in there in the first place. We can change who we think we are, but not what we are. But just because we’re people doesn’t mean we’re not animals, too, with the instincts built-in. We’re just animals who think. You’re still the same man I knew years ago."

He brought another photo out of the envelope and set it on top of the others. There was Tamara, and a much younger Hank, who was being held by a tall well-built black man, everyone smiling at the camera. Guy had his arm around Tamara. The guy was me. Or a dead-on split image. But here was me with a woman I didn’t know, holding a kid I didn’t know.

I said, "That’s a fake. Easy enough to do. Look, what game are you playing with me here?"

Doc stood and walked around to my side of the island. He rested a hand on my shoulder, brought his face close to my ear. It was all friendly. He whispered, "After the bust, seeing it was you and all, I went out of my way to set this up. We want you back. And with a little jogging of the memory, it’ll come back to you. Trust me. You always trusted me, buddy. You’ll be yourself again in no time, okay?"

Then I said the words that would have ended it at the bridge if I had thought everything was legit. I hoped my audience was still listening: "It’s a deal."

They had been listening all along. They came in the front and back simultaneously. I fell onto the island and pushed the guns and photos off with my chest, fell off my stool. The injured Chinese guy had his own pistol out, but when the agents came through the door in bulletproof vests, ATF blazed in yellow across the back, shouting orders with guns ready, the guy was too shocked to drop his piece. They took him down with two shots.

Doc’s hands went up, and two agents took him to the floor and handcuffed him. Another couple of shots sounded elsewhere in the house. An agent was by my side asking if I was okay. Then there was Gloria, my girlfriend, on her knees pressing her free hand on me, seeing if I was shot. She kept her Glock tight in her other hand. Vest on, hair tucked under her ATF cap, badge on her belt. More beautiful than if she were in lingerie.

"You took long enough," I said.

"The magic words. After that mistake on the bridge, you could’ve tried then."

"Everything was too fast. I didn’t know if I was out of range or not. You heard it all?"

"We never lost you."

Two agents stood Doc up and carried him out. Gloria helped me to my feet. She cut the tie off my hands, then reached into her back pocket and brought out my clip-on badge. She said, "Better put this on now. Crime scene."

I slipped the badge into place. Someone had already taken the photos and the Sig away. Another agent handed my .40 and its magazine to me.

Gloria said, "We couldn’t move in at the pond. It took us by surprise."

"Yeah, the whole thing was phony, I could tell. That George guy was too nervous."

"They found him upstairs. He’s dead."

"What about the others?" I said, feeling some strength and circulation come back to me as the drug wore off.

"Just wounded. They’ll be fine. How about you? Did they hurt you?" She ran her hand up and down my arm slowly.

"They handled me with kid gloves. What was all that they were talking about, Wally Collins?"

Her eyes glanced away, glanced back. "Like you said, either they had the wrong guy or it was a big game."

"What about the photos?"

She looked around. "What photos?"

"He showed a woman and a kid, and one of them with me. They were right here a minute ago."

Gloria pouted her lips a moment, then said. "Maybe it’s the drug. Everything’s foggy for you right now. After this, you can take a break for a few months. No more undercover work for a while. Cheer up! We finally got Doc Kim."

I nodded. Maybe it was all in my head. I’d look into it later. But right then, I just wanted to go home. At least, the only one I remembered.