For our second writing assignment, April 11, we were supposed to observe a stranger from a distance, and describe them. I saw this person on the way home from class, parked by the cemetery.
Lucky
From a distance it’s just another blue convertible, but a closer look reveals this one’s a late model AMG E53 Cabriolet, not quite the top of the Mercedes line, but up there. It was parked by the gates of St. Andrews Cemetery, across from the old Presbyterian church. A hundred grand might get you a showroom demo ‘sale price’, but not in Spectral Blue metallic, like this baby. 3 litre turbo, 429 horses, zero to 100 in 4.6, if you don’t spin the 20 inch twin spoke aero wheels.
That’s one mean machine, so how come the owner isn’t smiling. Could be the car owns him. He looks Tamil, but young enough to have been born in Scarborough, probably early thirties. Clean shaven, his jet black hair was neatly trimmed, not too short, and not touching the collar of his navy blazer. Judging from his upper torso he works out regularly; no fat, but a heavy build, around 220 pounds, and just under six feet. His name was Pratheesh, but he was known to his friends as ‘Lucky’.
Lucky wasn’t religious like his mother, but kept a small gold statue of Murugan on his dash, complete with trident, just in case. For a man whose name means full of hope and expectations, this didn’t seem to be his day. His left hand gripped the sky blue Galaxy S22 as if he wanted to squeeze the life out of it, and if the dead could hear, the Thompsons and all their descendants wouldn’t have missed a word. Strangely enough, it was hard to tell if he was shouting in anger or fear, but the guy on the receiving end must have known.
“I said I don’t have it now, for fuck sake, I’m waiting for a pay back!”
“Tonight. He promised me tonight. I’ll pay you tomorrow.”
“Leave her out of this. She has nothing to do with it. She wasn’t involved, so fuck off, I’ll take care of it. Tomorrow. All of it, yes.”
Lucky took the cellphone from his ear, pushed the end call button without saying bye, and immediately punched in a string of ten numbers.
“Where the fuck are you! I want me money. Now!”
“Don’t fuck with me, asshole! I told you - today!”
“No you fucken calm down! I need it all. 10 o’clock tonight, no fucken later!”
“Listen asshole, I’ll be parked outside Habiba. If you’re not there by ten, your family pays, one ways or another. All of it!”
He ended the call like the first one, then clicked recent.
“It’s me. I’ve got some business tonight. I won’t be coming by. Listen to me, don’t answer your phone unless it’s me. Never mind why.”
“No, nothing’s wrong. It’s just business. Everything’s okay. I just don’t want you talking to anyone till I’ve got this thing all settled.”
“Because someone might call asking for me, so don’t pick up. No, by tomorrow it’ll all be taken care of. Don’t worry.”
“I can’t talk now. Never mind. Just stay home. I’ll call you when it’s all done.”
“We can talk about that later, not now. Sure, this summer, no problem. But just keep it quiet for now. Never mind your father.”
“No, for fuck sake, I’m not seeing someone else. I gotta go. Ya, tomorrow.”
Third call, third cold disconnect, no ‘alavida’ to anyone.
Lucky dropped the phone back in the console and slammed the steering wheel with both hands.
“Fuck!”
It not longer felt like the kind of day for showing off his new car with the top down. With the push of a button, the soft top unfolded from the rear and slowly moved up to the windshield, snapping into place just as the cabriolet was engineered to do. He had five hours to kill before Kethan showed up with his money, if he had it. There was no plan B. Nemi didn’t fuck around, when he told Lucky to pay up, he meant it. No money, no car - or worse.
Five hours. Why wait! If he left now, with this bomb he could easily make it to Montreal in that time. Nemi wouldn’t know where to look. Anyway, chances of Kethan coming through with his money were slim at best. Mekala would understand, eventually. He’d call her when he was safe. He just needed more time. Yes, drive straight to Montreal, he had a friend in Dorval, he’d sort it all out from there.
Foot on the brake, left hand on the wheel, Lucky pushed the start button and the turbo roared to life. Not yet used to the raw power under the accelerator, aided by hybrid electric assist, the E53 lurched forward at high speed. Forward, and straight into the path of Reverend Newman’s old but reliable 2007 Toyota Corolla, on his way in to prepare for Sunday’s sermon. There’s no good word to describe the sound of shiny new Spectral Blue fiberglass shattering on impact. Speed up and amplify the sound of pouring milk over rice crispies a hundredfold and you’ll be close, then follow that immediately with an air bag explosion and a piercing car alarm. Only one more sound completes the scenario, and it wasn’t coming from Reverend Newman.
“FUCK!”
Ken Bole
CW Assignment #2
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