Short Story: Dundee

Short Story: Dundee

The car was a typical American shed on wheels that just about had an AM/FM radio and rattled like a nineteen sixties washing machine if pushed over eighty miles an hour. It was the car that all aspiring-American foreigners drove. The milometer had most definitely been tampered with and none of the dials worked correctly; unless the car really could do ninety miles an hour in third and the engine temperature was always below freezing. The driver’s door ash tray would no longer open thanks to some kid in the eighties jamming an army man in there so tightly it became his coffin. In the back, where the seat and backrest met, the black leather had a slight red tinge to it where blood had pooled there once upon a time. If you let the passenger side window down, you had to place your hand on the glass and push it outwards in order to make it go back up. The boot release no longer worked, so one had to bash the trunk lid in a very particular manner in order for it to open. Last, but by no means least, the rear view mirror was held to the roof lining by decade old blue-tack.

In the early sixties, this car had made someone very happy. Through the following four decades it was a constant source of frustration and misery for whoever got stuck with it as a mode of transport. Now, however, it was a labour of love for a man called Dundee.

He started with the engine, as was necessary, and had her running to an acceptable standard. The interior was a mess but that was of little concern, speed was much more imperative. Dundee grinned as he noted that the rumble from the front right wheel had completely vanished as he turned right and pulled up outside the bank. The car had come with a spacious glove box, a commodity Dundee found invaluable.

Ten minutes later the fresh rubber Dundee had fitted to the rear got a severe test as he iron footed his way from the scene. He rolled down the window; yes, rolled, this is a car from the sixties after all, and threw his balaclava and handgun out of it. The wind smashed in to his left ear, carrying the faint sound of sirens within it.

A beautiful redhead caught Dundee’s eye, gazing intently at a shop window. He parked hastily and made for the cafe situated two units down from the subject of redhead’s intrigue. The door hit a bell after opening a mere inch. The place was fairly busy, plenty of patrons hurrying through either a late breakfast or an early lunch. The man behind the counter spotted Dundee and nodded to his left.

Dundee strolled casually around the right hand side of the counter, through the stare of a young, confused waitress, and in to the kitchen. Two ex-cons in hair nets slaved lazily over cheap burgers and cheaper steaks. A couple of bus boys washed pots less than enthusiastically. A giant of a Russian waved a pistol at Dundee, beckoning him in to the manager’s office.

“How are you doing, Alfred?” Big Ben was the only man who called Dundee by his first name, the only man Dundee would accept such an address from.

“Well enough.” Dundee replied as he was crushed by one of the Soprano-wannabe’s devastating hugs. “I see you are too.” Dundee added, cheekily patting Big Ben on his busting, British belly.

Ben laughed it off, as he always did, but tightened the hug to hurt slightly more. Dundee suppressed a wince and took a seat opposite his employer. Big Ben had ordered a huge, mahogany desk to be placed in his base of operations to make himself seem more impressive to clients and competitors alike. He had an oil painting of himself hanging behind his seat, the very seat his bodacious behind was parked in on the painting. Despite all his little mafia touches, it still looked like the manager’s office of an east-town diner.

“So,” Big Ben folded his hands across his fat abdomen and leaned back, he really did watch too much Soprano’s. “I’m assuming you have procured what I requested of you.”

“Of course.” Dundee wasn’t one to hang around exchanging pleasantries. He pulled out the rolled up paper from underneath his jacket. Big Ben took it off him like a child at Halloween and unrolled the blueprints out on to the table.

“Fantastic.” He wheezed, sounding close to orgasm. “Benefield won’t know what hit him. With these we can-”

“Need to know, Benny. Remember?” Dundee interrupted. If he got caught by police stealing from a bank he’d be a lot better off than if Benefield thought he was part of Big Ben’s inner circle. “Just pay me and I’ll go.”

“Now, Alfred, the thing is with-”

“No, no, no, no, NO! I told you I’m done.”

“And if you interrupt me again it’ll be the last thing you do. Sit.”

The Russian’s steel prodded Dundee in the small of the back, pushing him back in to his chair.

“Tonight, we plan on sabotaging the foundations of this supposed mini-mall. Benefield will have men protecting the site, I need all the guns I have at my disposal.” The way Big Ben said it, it was not a proposition.

“I’m a criminal, not a gangster. I’m in your hire, I’m not one of your boys.”

“Twenty grand. One night’s work, twenty grand.”

“What about today’s work? You promised me five for this.”

“Twenty five grand will be yours as soon as that mall gets un-built.”

“No. I’ll need something for my work today if I’m gonna show up tonight. And tell that Russian that if he points that gun at me again, I’ll kill him.” The huge man made a deep rumbling noise but calmed and retreated under Big Ben’s gaze.

“I don’t have that kind of money here.”

“Give me something.”

“You have my word.”

Dundee stared the big Brit down as best he could before surrendering to his will. The Russian stood blocking his way out and refused to budge under Dundee’s shoves until his boss ordered otherwise.

The cafe had emptied somewhat whilst Dundee had been getting screwed over, but the redhead from outside was now sat at the counter drinking a coffee. She looked suggestively at him, earning her a scornful glare from the waitress who had checked Dundee out on his way in.

Dundee winked at the redhead, who then pulled out a pistol and pointed it at the waitress’ chest.

“Are you mad?” the man who nodded asked, seeing the gun. “Don’t you know who owns this place?”

“Very well indeed,” Dundee smirked, pointing the Russian’s oversized gun at the nodder’s head. “The money from the till, if you please.”

“Alfred, my boy, have you gone mad?” Big Ben never swore or shouted, he didn’t need to. “Kill them.”

The Russian fumbled about his waist, grunting in dim-witted confusion.

“Looking for this?” Dundee pointed the man’s own gun at him. He roared and charged, forcing Dundee to pierce his forehead.

Big Ben highlighted himself as the wannabe he was in the next minute and a half. Where Tony Soprano would have raged and fought back even if it meant dying, Benjamin William Gray panicked, wilted and gave up the contents of his till and his safe. The customers had long since fled, Dundee decided it was time for him to do the same.

The redhead followed him through the kitchens and out in to the alley, where his forty odd year old motor stood idling.

“You did great, baby.” Dundee kissed Sandra on the forehead, the exact spot where he had shot the Russian.

“Plenty of time for that once we’re out of dodge.” She had her stern voice on, Dundee loved that voice.

He did his best to drive calmly as he fled his second crime scene of the day, but his excitement threatened to boil over. With the money he had stolen from the bank and the cash they had attained from Big Ben, there was close to a hundred thousand dollars in this old, American shed-on-wheels. Sandra pulled a handful of cash out of one of Benjamin’s duffle bags and gave it a big sniff. The smile on her face lit up Dundee’s.

Blue lights appeared in the rear view mirror. Dundee got his lead foot out.