Chapter Six
There was a mechanical swooshing sound followed by a bone-rattling impact, as of Thor’s hammer striking the earth. It repeated at regular intervals along with the shriek of tortured metal. St. James got to where he dreaded the onset of the swoosh because he knew that within seconds it would be followed by the impact.
He just wanted to sleep.
St. James woke up. He was cramped and hot, head filled with cotton. A few beams of light barely illuminated the tight, cramped quarters in which he was confined. He looked at his watch. It was eleven AM. The last thing he remembered was going back to meet the band.
He never met the band.
After that it got hazy. He remembered the Russian. Kaspar. Kaspar Sinaiko. Giving him a ride? Jesus, he realized, I’m in a trunk! Another sound entered his befuddled confinement, some kind of tractor. It would approach, gears whining followed by adjustments and then it would roll away.
SWOOOSH—THWACK!
What the fuck was it?
St. James felt around. His guitar case and backpack had been thrown in with him. He adjusted himself as best he could and saw that the beams of light were entering through rust holes in the trunk lid.
“Hey!” he yelled. It came out a phlegmy croak. He pounded on the lid with his fists. The sound was blotted out by the tractor, and the SWOOOSH—THWACK! He suddenly felt nauseous. The tight confines, dust, and heat were unbearable. He kicked and screamed like a madman. He swiveled in the impossibly tight confines and kicked against the backs of the rear seat. No give there.
The tractor approached, and this time it was for him. Amid the stink of diesel, long metal arms slid beneath the chassis with a hair-raising screech. A second later, the chassis rose into the air to the accompaniment of whining hydraulics, the sudden motion making his gorge rise.
Frantic now, St. James swept the interior looking for something, anything. His hands encountered the jack, held in place by a spring grip. He worked it loose, searching for the jack handle. Oh, where was it? He was screaming quietly to himself now, breath grating in and out between clenched teeth. The car wobbled precariously as the tractor headed toward the source of the massive crushing sound.
St. James’ hand slid beneath his guitar case and closed around a cool metal rod. The jack handle! No time to place the shoe which he couldn’t find anyway. He planted the jack’s narrow base just before the trunk opening, placed the handle in the ratchet and cranked. The jack went down!
The tractor delivered St. James’ vehicle onto a scarred metal plate, which he could see through rust holes in the floor. Desperately fumbling, St. James reversed the ratchet, cutting his thumb open and bleeding profusely over his hands. Twisted in the tight confines, he cranked the jack and this time it rose. He cranked as fast as he could, cramps forming in his neck and shoulder.
The hydraulic intake of breath was deafening. If he was going to get out of there, he had to do it right away. He cranked and cranked. The trunk dimpled where the top of the jack forced its way up. Whimpering in frustration St. James continued to crank.
Suddenly there was light! The trunk sprang open. St. James sat up.
“STOP THE PRESSES!” he yelled.
A startled technician in coveralls and a hard hat goggled hard before lurching forward and ripping back the controls for the car press. St. James looked up. A metal slab the size of a handball court halted with a hiss of steam six inches above the car’s roof. St. James threw out his guitar case and backpack, heaved himself over the bumper, and landed on the hot metal of the press. He looked up as the yellow forklift slid rails beneath another junker.
The tech ran forward, shouting in Czech, followed moments later by a man in hard hat, white shirt, and tie, his face a mask of shock. St. James could only lie there fearing to move, fearing another gagging bout.
Will I never learn?
The man in the white shirt said something in Czech with overtones of concern and anger. St. James couldn’t blame him.
“English,” St. James gasped. “I’m English.”
“What are you doing here?!” the man shouted. Then, “Are you all right?”
St. James leaned over the lip of the slab and vomited up a thin yellow gruel. The man in the tie stepped back. St. James wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
“Aside from being sick to my stomach, yes, I think so. I don’t know what I’m doing here. What is this place?”
“Mayerik Auto Salvagers. How did you get in the trunk?”
St. James watched horrific realization steal across the man’s face.
“What do you think? Somebody put me there. They drugged me and put me in the trunk. It’s a miracle I’m not a bloody pancake.”
“You would have been had you not woken up. And we are running an hour late today, so you are very lucky.”
St. James looked up at the vehicle he’d just escaped. A Mercedes. The trunk was by no means small.
“Do you know a Kaspar Sinaiko?” St. James asked. He’d written the name in his sketchpad during the night.
The manager looked confused. “Can you stand? Come with me. You can’t stay here. We are behind schedule.”
St. James slid on his pants to the edge of the steel platform and let himself slowly down. He could barely walk. The manager supported him as they stumbled toward the office of the salvage yard, located in the middle of towers of crushed steel.
“My guitar and backpack,” St. James said.
“Yes, yes, I get them in a minute.”
The office was a one-story pre-fab with a roof mounted air conditioner. The blessed cold revived St. James somewhat as he stumbled into a steel chair and accepted a cup of water. The manager was clearly concerned about the legal implications. St. James had no intention of calling the police. He would only draw attention to himself as an itinerant drunk. But the manager didn’t know that. He drained the glass and held it out for more. The manager refilled it. He drained it.
“You say you don’t know a Kaspar Sinaiko? Bald, all tatted up?”
The manager shook his head. He had a square head and black horn-rimmed glasses. “No, of course not. I’m the day manager. Jerzy Schimmel.”
“How did that car get in the lot?”
“It was in loading dock this morning. The police frequently tow derelicts here if there is no crime involvement.”
“I’ve got to get my things.”
“Wait here.” The manager rose and left the office. St. James looked around. Desk, fairly new flat-screen computer, rows of metal filing cabinets. He heaved himself up and over to the desk, files neatly stacked. He sat in the creaky steel office chair and riffled through the stack of papers on the left. He came to a promotional post card: “MAYERIK AUTO SALVAGE—A DIVISION OF THE SKORZNY GROUP.”
He tucked it in his jacket, heaved himself up, and plopped back into the steel chair as the manager reentered the office carrying the guitar case and the backpack.
“You are musician?”
St. James took his backpack and opened it up. “I try to be.” He rummaged around. “Oh, no. Oh, bloody hell, no! I don’t fuckin’ believe it!”
“What is the problem?”
“The fuckin’ bastard that locked me in that trunk robbed me! I had one thousand korunas in here! May I borrow your phone? I’m calling the police.”
The manager held his hands up in a placating manner. “Let’s not be hasty. What if we were to make it up to you?”
St. James did his best to look suspicious. “Why would you do that? Here this bastard tried to kill me. God knows how many other poor saps have been turned into pancakes.” Around here.
“We’re in a probationary period right now,” the manager said. “We really can’t afford any police involvement.”
St. James noted that the manager had left out the word “more.” As in, We really can’t afford any more police involvement.
“Well, I don’t know. I’ve been through absolute hell. I was supposed to leave for Berlin last night.”
“What is your name?”
“Ian St. James.”
“Mr. St. James, how would it be if we reimbursed you for the thousand koruna and took you wherever you want to go? Would you consider letting the matter go?”
St. James rubbed his head and looked rueful. “Do you know what it’s like, being coshed on the head, shoved into a trunk, and left for dead?”
Schimmel steepled his fingers. “Two thousand koruna?”