Claudia Must Die (6 page)

During their weekly meal, she would casually mention to Francis, “You know that woman I was dating? Well, it’s over.” Francis would nod and Ida would add flippantly, “I don’t know why I keep hoping to find someone worthwhile to listen to. Maybe I should resort to whores and not get my hopes up. I could pay the bitch not to talk and kick her out of bed once I’m through.”

He thought back to their childhood again. After Ida had lived with Francis and his family for two years, she grew tired of her uncle’s behavior. Mick never laid a finger on Ida, but she had witnessed him beat his wife and Francis many times. When Ida and Francis were alone, she would call her uncle Dick, which always brought a smile to Francis’s face.

Then one night, during dinner, Ida pronounced Mick’s name in such a way that it sounded like Dick, although it wasn’t clear. Mick did nothing. Ida continued her pronunciation game for days. Francis warned her. It was only a matter of time before Mick had enough.

“Good. I want him to know I think he’s a dick!”

Ida wasn’t scared of the beating she would get. Later that night she had said, “Can you please pass the salt, Dick?” There was no doubt she had said Dick that time, and Mick had heard it clearly. Mick noticed the triumph on her face when she saw the realization spread across her uncle’s face.

Mick backhanded Ida right off her chair. Both mothers leaped to their feet, but they were too late. Francis was already on top of his father, pounding the shit out of him. Francis wasn’t yet as strong as he would become, but Mick was drunker than normal that night, and Francis used it to his advantage.

The next day, Francis and Ida were shipped off to a relative’s house until Mick cooled off. They didn’t return for a month. That was the last time Mick ever hit Ida. Actually, it was the last time Mick hit anyone in the family. If he even thought of it, Francis stared him down.

Besides the boyfriend in high school, no one else dared hurt Ida, out of fear of her cousin.

Not until now.

Francis took a long sip of his Guinness. Ida wasn’t the target, but she was the one who got killed. He still had a hard time admitting she was dead, and not just on one of her business trips. At first, he had wanted to kill Parker; if it weren’t for her, this wouldn’t have happened.

He paused again for another sip of Guinness, staring at the painting.

No, it wasn’t Parker’s fault. She had no idea about Claudia. Claudia had probably followed Parker around for weeks on end, and Parker wouldn’t even have noticed. Francis had never met such a clueless person.

He had also never met someone his cousin loved so completely.

Pulling his Zippo out of his jeans pocket, he then lit his cigar. After three puffs, he made up his mind. He would break his rule about hurting a woman. Claudia had to die.

He gripped his cigar tightly as he raised it to his lips. “And the assassins and the husband,” he said, blowing a smoke ring to follow his words. “I’ll kill all of them.”

Chapter Ten

The Woolf brothers returned to Boston and headed toward Cleveland Circle, where they could find parking and blend in with the college students.

Parker lived around the corner, and the other woman, Claudia, couldn’t live that far away. Boyd had a pretty good idea what had happened. Their target tried to set up Parker, and the killers and the evil man had fallen for it. The dossier the messenger had handed over was illuminating.

Boyd and Otis entered Gordy’s Pizza, each ordering their own pie. Sitting at one of the plastic booths, Boyd took out Claudia’s photograph again. Something wasn’t sitting right with him.

Before, all of the people they “took care of” were men—some young, some old, and some of an age that Boyd couldn’t even begin to guess at. Now that the older brother had time to think about the situation, he felt sick to his stomach.

“I think we should stop,” he told his brother.

Otis looked up from the table and tilted his head. “You want to leave Boston?” The younger Woolf looked hopeful. For some reason, Boston had it in for them, and Otis never wanted to step foot in the city again. No other city had given them this much trouble.

“All of it.”

Otis rubbed the top of his head, rustling up his cowlicks, and let out a sigh.

“Before, it didn’t bug me. It was just business.” Boyd looked around to see if anyone was listening. “But we took care of the wrong person…‌and now we’re mixed up with some scary dudes.”

Again, Otis stayed quiet.

“I’m not sure we should finish this one, Otis.” Boyd ran his hand through his coal-black hair, eyes fixed on the man who was scooping a pizza out of a massive oven. “The only problem is: how do we get our family out?”

Otis started to move out of his seat, but then sat back down quickly, realizing he didn’t have a plan. “Maybe, we can just finish this one and then everything will be fine,” he said.

Right then, Claudia walked in and strolled to the cashier.

Otis, lost in his own thoughts, didn’t notice her.

Boyd ignored his brother’s statement and causally made his way to the fridge, pretending to study the drinks.

“Ah, my favorite customer. I missed you,” the short Italian cashier told Claudia, in a heavy accent.

She smiled a pitiful smile and looked flustered, clearly not knowing how to respond. How does one confess to getting the wrong person killed?

Claudia ordered a pepperoni pie with banana peppers. “Lots of them, please.”

“Sure thing. Would you like a drink?” The cashier punched a few keys on the cash register.

Claudia turned to the fridge, where Boyd stood. Something about the man seemed familiar. However, his face didn’t register any sign of recognition, so she turned back to the Italian.

“Uh, no drink today. Thanks.” Claudia pulled out a twenty and handed it over. When the cashier gave her the change, Claudia told him she’d be back in a few minutes to pick up the pizza.

Boyd watched out of the corner of his eye as she crossed the street and slipped into the CVS Pharmacy. He grabbed a Mountain Dew and paid for it.

“Here, drink this.” He set the bottle down in front of Otis. “I’ll be right back,” he said over his shoulder as he rushed out of the store.

Otis didn’t say a word. When Boyd said wait, Otis waited.

He twisted the cap off the soda and glugged half of it. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he watched a man mosey into the store. The man gave him a half-wave. Otis stared in return.

“Ah, there you are.” The man slid into the booth opposite.

Otis raised the Mountain Dew to his lips.

“Didn’t Boyd tell you I’d be keeping an eye on you?” The man’s face showed no emotion, but he reached under the table and gave Otis’s thigh a friendly squeeze—much too friendly.

Otis shot up, the rest of his Mountain Dew fizzing out all over the table.

“Geez, Otis! Why are you so jumpy today?” The man swabbed the table with paper napkins from the dispenser on the table. “Here.” He passed some for Otis. “Don’t leave a mess for others to clean up.”

Otis did as he was told.

The man looked at his watch. “I have to run. Please tell Boyd I’m sorry I missed him.” He ruffled Otis’s hair tenderly on his way out.

Otis didn’t move a muscle. The man behind the counter rang the bell, and called out that Otis’s order was up. The younger brother still didn’t budge. He stood next to the booth like a statue. The pizza owner shrugged and went back to the ovens.

When Boyd reentered Gordy’s and saw the look on Otis’s face, he immediately wondered what in the hell had happened.

He snapped his fingers in front of Otis’s face. Nothing registered, not even the flicker of the eye. The pizza chef motioned to Boyd that his pies were done.

After sitting down, Boyd handed Otis a paper plate containing a single slice of pizza. Otis looked at his brother, and the tiniest of tears glistened in the corner of his left eye.

Silent, the brothers ate, neither of them tasting the food.

Claudia returned, seized her pizza box, and left before anyone behind the counter had a chance to acknowledge her.

Boyd, knowing he couldn’t leave his brother alone at the moment, let the opportunity slip by.

Chapter Eleven

Francis jumped when he heard his cell phone buzz on the table next to his rocking chair. He had fallen into a stupor while contemplating killing everyone involved.

“Yeah,” he grumbled into the phone.

“The brothers. They’re back.”

“Where?”

“Cleveland Circle.”

The phone went dead, and Francis slammed it shut. “Shit!” He had to act, and he had to act now.

Francis stood and calmly walked to his car, not letting on that he was in a hurry.

Pulling in front of the student’s apartment, he scanned the street. He didn’t see any imminent danger—and that made him jumpy. Everything seemed too quiet on Commonwealth Avenue at three in the afternoon. Usually, the air was filled with honking, screeching subway car wheels, and rambunctious Boston College students. Had he missed the apocalypse?

When a subway car finally screeched to a halt outside, he left his car and strolled to the front door of the apartment building. He punched in the code on the keypad with one stubby index finger, and the door clicked open. Parker had never given him the code, but one night he had found the numbers on a crumpled up Post-it note in the lobby. One of the residents was forgetful, it seemed.

He jimmied Parker’s door open and let himself inside. Francis felt more relaxed now that he was off the street. He let out a sigh; his plan was to wait for Parker to return home from MIT. None of the windows in her apartment were open, and the air was stifling. He called for Fritz, but the dog didn’t come.

Francis pulled out his gun. Cocking his head, he listened for any sound; not hearing any, he made his way to the bedroom.

He spied a head outside of the window and detected a voice talking to Fritz.

Slipping his gun back into his kakis, Francis shook his head. Parker was talking to Fritz. What fresh hell was this?

***

Parker found that once she began telling her story to the dog, she couldn’t stop. For years, everything had been bottled up inside her. The words bubbled out of her like foam from a shaken beer can.

“Hello.” Francis walked out, onto the deck.

Parker, still in her PJs, nodded in acknowledgement.

“Are you ill?” queried Francis.

Parker shook her head and let out a long breath.

Francis wanted to smile but didn’t, knowing it was the wrong emotion to reveal. Tough Parker had finally let down her walls and opened up to Ida’s dog. His cousin would have gotten a kick out of seeing her there, in her PJs, talking to Fritz. Ida would have appreciated the fact that Parker had chosen a dog to confide in, rather than a person.

“Shall we order a pizza? I’m craving Gordy’s.” Francis didn’t wait for an answer he knew would never come. He placed the order quickly and then sat down next to the girl. Fritz scooted over for a pat, and then returned to his post at Parker’s feet.

***

The Woolf brothers sat in their car, staking out Parker’s street and hoping Claudia was nearby. The encounter in Gordy’s had shaken them both up. Otis and Boyd knew they couldn’t leave town until they took care of the damn thing once and for all. The messenger squeezing Otis’s thigh was too much for the fragile mind of a man who could never escape his childhood.

As Otis slept, Boyd remembered their uncle.

Fucking pervert!
screamed Boyd’s thoughts.

The boys’ father was never around, so their mom had been relieved when her husband’s brother started dropping by to help out.

When their uncle had decided to take Otis fishing alone, no one thought anything about it. He wanted bonding time, suggested the uncle. He wanted to teach his brother’s youngest child how to fish.

“Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach him to fish and feed him for a lifetime,” he had said.

Boyd and his mother fell for it: hook, line, and sinker.

When Otis returned from the first fishing expedition, he was ecstatic. He had caught two catfish, which he proudly handed over to his mom, proclaiming, “Dinner’s on me!”

The second time, Otis hadn’t caught any fish, and he returned in a horrible mood. When their mom asked where her dinner was, Otis had broken into tears and run away.

Boyd decided not to ask him what happened.

Otis didn’t catch fish on the next five outings, either. After each trip, he was quieter than normal and didn’t want to be around anyone. His mom didn’t pick up on any signs. But Boyd did. Otis never was a chatty kid, but he always enjoyed following Boyd all over their small, dusty town. When Boyd saw him sitting morosely under a lone tree by a dried-up creek, the older brother knew something fishy had happened.

After the sixth failed fishing expedition, Boyd approached Otis by the tree. His younger brother sat with his arms wrapped around his legs, and his body heaved as if he was crying.

Boyd had only seen Otis cry like that once before—after the second trip with the uncle. Even when Otis had fallen off Boyd’s bike when he was four, breaking his wrist, he hadn’t shed a tear. Otis was born tough. Texas tough.

A twig snapped under Boyd’s foot as he approached his brother near the creek, and Otis bolted up, his fists raised. Through his tear-filled eyes, Otis couldn’t tell who it was. He kept dancing, like a prizefighter ready for the knockout blow.

“Otis, it’s okay. It’s me, Boyd.”

Otis lowered his dukes. “I don’t want to go fishing anymore, Boyd.” As soon as the words left his lips, a deluge of tears and snot rendered him incapable of talking further.

That was when Boyd really knew about the uncle.

He walked up to his brother and held him in his arms. He had never hugged Otis before. “You won’t ever see him again, Otis.”

And Otis never did.

No one in the family ever saw the uncle again. Once, their mother mentioned his name, and Otis ran from the room. She thought it was because the uncle had abandoned them, just like their father had. After that day, Mrs. Woolf never mentioned the uncle again.