Cold Shot to the Heart (18 page)

The line picked up on the third ring. Silence. Eddie said, “Terry.”

A pause, then, “Yeah?”

“Tell him,” Suarez said.

“Come down the alley to the loading gate,” Eddie said. “Fourth warehouse from the street, where the Nova's parked.”

“You find him?”

“Just come down.”

“Tell him I'll open the gate a little,” Suarez said. “Then he's going to slide his weapon in first.”

“He's not carrying.”

“I don't believe that.”

“What's going on?” Terry said.

“It's okay,” Eddie said. “Everything's under control. We're just going to talk.”

“Hey,” Suarez said. “Can you hear me?”

“Who's that?”

“Man who's holding a shotgun to your partner's head.”

Another pause, then, “I can hear you.”

“I'm going to open the gate one foot,” he said. “Whatever kind of coat you're wearing, you push it through. Then you show me your hands. Hold them out and keep them there. You got it?”

“I got it.”

“You do anything besides that—or if there's more than one of you out there—I take your partner's head off.”

“I understand.”

“Then do it.”

He picked up the phone, closed it, put it back in his jacket. “Tino's not going to like this,” Eddie said.

“Fuck him. Only one person had shit to do with this. And he's dead.”

“Tino's not buying that. They took a half million from that game, you know that? You get your share?”

“Man, shut up with that talk.”

“There's got to be plenty left. We find it, we split it between the three of us. Tino doesn't care about the money. It's ours to keep. You lead us to the Stone woman, to Chance, we all get paid.”

There was a tap at the metal gate. Suarez looked at it, backed farther toward the wall.

“Just stay right there, homes,” he said to Eddie. “Don't move an inch.”

With the shotgun in his right hand, he reached back with his left, found the wall switch. The gate rattled, rose up a foot, stopped.

“Throw your gun in here,” he said.

“Don't have one.”

“Coat.”

“Hang on.”

Terry's denim jacket came through the opening. Suarez crossed to the gate, watching Eddie. He picked up the jacket, then backed toward the switch again.

“You help us,” Eddie said, “you'll be doing Tino a favor. Whatever your part was in this, it's forgotten. All he wants is the woman and Chance.”

Suarez tossed the jacket aside. “What he wants and what he gets are two different things. Now shut up.” He looked at the gate and said, “Hands.”

Terry put his arms through, sleeves pushed to his elbows.

“I'm going to raise that gate again,” Suarez said to him. “You squeeze through on your belly. If there's a weapon on you, I'll take you out right there. Understand?”

Terry mumbled a response.

“What?” Suarez said.

“I said I understand.”

Suarez looked at Eddie, then worked the switch. The gate rattled up slowly and stopped.

“Come through,” Suarez said. “Hands up in front of you.”

Terry scuttled under the gate, stood, saw Eddie on his knees. Suarez turned fully toward him, aiming the shotgun with both hands.

“Easy,” Suarez said. “Slow.”

Terry raised his hands, came forward. Eddie looked at Suarez's back, drew the Star from under his sweater, and shot him through the left knee.

The impact blew the leg out from under him. He hit the floor, and Eddie came up fast, gripped the shotgun barrel, twisted it out of his hands. He stepped back, pointing the Star at Suarez's head.

“Jesus Christ,” Terry said.

Suarez moaned. He was holding his leg with both hands, blood soaking through his pants. Eddie went around him, put the Star away, hit the wall switch. The gate slid down and shut. The motor went silent.

Suarez looked up at him, his face tight with pain. “Mother
fucker.
”

Eddie held the shotgun out to Terry. “Take this.”

Terry hesitated.

“I said take it.”

Terry took the shotgun, stepped back.

Eddie squatted, avoiding the slow pool of blood around Suarez's leg. He took Stimmer's razor from his pants pocket, opened it. Suarez looked at the blade.

“Now,” Eddie said. “We talk.”

TWENTY-ONE

The retirement home was in Asbury Park, twenty stories of pink concrete that looked out on trash-strewn dunes, the ocean beyond. A two-hour drive down from the city, but she'd found the address easily. Next door was the municipal sewer plant, machines chugging away in there behind high walls, the smell of it faint in the air. Out past the beach, waves splashed high around the jetties.

She parked the rental in a visitor's spot, stepped out into the wind. Scraps of newspaper blew past her. Out front, an American flag snapped on a pole.

She went up wide stone steps into a lobby that smelled of disinfectant and floor wax. A heavy black woman was at the reception desk. To the right, double doors opened onto a dining hall, the tables already set for dinner. An elderly uniformed guard sat near a bank of elevators, reading a newspaper.

Crissa was at the desk a full ten seconds before the receptionist acknowledged her. When she said who she'd come to see, she was handed a clipboard with a sign-in sheet, a pen taped to a string. Crissa made swirling marks on the signature line without forming any letters, gave it back. The woman took it, gave her a visitor's pass torn from a pad, pointed down a long hall. The security guard never looked up.

She walked past open doors, glanced into a TV room, saw half a dozen seniors sitting around, some in wheelchairs, watching a soap opera on a flat-screen set. Across the hall was an empty music room with a piano, a bouquet of artificial flowers atop it. Halfway down the corridor, a gurney was parked against the wall, the sheets rumpled and stained, restraining belts hanging loose.

The activity room was at the end of the corridor. Folding chairs and card tables, a cabinet stocked with board games. Jimmy Peaches sat in a big upholstered chair facing a window, his back to her. Beside him was an aluminum walker. He was alone in the room.

He heard her footsteps, craned his neck to look back at her.

“Jimmy,” she said. “
Come sta
?”

He smiled, struggled to rise.

“Don't get up,” she said.

“Come here, you. Let me get a look at you. It's been a long time.”

He took her left hand in his right, pulled her close. She gave him a quick embrace, felt his frailness against her. What was left of his hair was combed straight back. He wore a pale yellow sweater over a bright white polo shirt, the initials JCF above the breast pocket. The crease on his pants was sharp, his shoes shiny.

“You look terrific,” he said. “You haven't changed at all.”

“You're just being a gentleman.”

“No, I mean it. You haven't.”

“May I sit?”

“Please. You're my guest.”

She got a folding chair from one of the tables.

“You find the place all right?” he said.

“Your directions were good. Thanks for seeing me.”

“I chased everybody out. I still have a little clout around here.”

She pulled the chair close, sat. “So, how are you, Jimmy?”

“I woke up this morning. That's a good thing.”

“You look sharp.”

“I try. I was happy to hear from you. I don't get many visitors these days. Jimmy Junior used to come twice a week. He's inside now.”

“I heard. I'm sorry.”

“My grandson Anthony comes by when he can. He's a good kid, but he's got his own life, you know? I understand.”

“I wanted to bring you something, but I wasn't sure what you could use.”

“Two good legs and three feet of colon.”

“Sorry. Next time, I promise.”

He pointed at a glass door that led to a sunroom. “Let's talk out there,” he said. “More privacy.”

“You sure you're up for that?”

“I'll be okay. Just bring that thing closer, let me grab ahold of it.”

She moved the walker toward him. He rose from the chair, gripped the handles, shifted his weight. She waited, ready to catch him if he lost his balance, trying not to hover.

“You'll have to get the door,” he said.

“Of course.” She held it open as he worked his way toward it. The tennis balls on the walker's back legs squeaked on the floor. His left leg was dragging slightly. He saw her looking.

“Stroke,” he said. “Last year.”

“I didn't know.”

“Not such a bad one. But then, what's a good one, right?”

They went into the sunroom. Sloped floor-to-ceiling windows, wrought-iron patio furniture with green cushions. The windows were dirty, but late afternoon sun poured through, dust motes glittering in the light. The door closed behind them.

He nodded at a pair of chairs near the front windows. She followed him, keeping a half step behind. Beside the chairs was a dead fern, the soil in the planter littered with cigarette butts.

“Help comes out here to smoke,” he said. “I used to sneak a cigar myself now and then, back when I could afford them.”

She waited for him to sit. Instead, he leaned on the walker, looked out at the ocean. Wind was flattening the dune grass, sweeping the tops off the gray waves.

“I used to come down the Shore all the time when I was young,” he said. “Asbury, Long Branch. The whole place was wide open.”

He nodded to the north. “Back in the fifties, sixties, Long Branch was like the wiseguy Riviera. I was there every weekend. The Surf Lounge, the Paddock, the Piano Bar, Yvonne's Rhapsody. We owned that town. And when Monmouth Park opened for the season …
marone
. The whole area was crawling with guys like me.”

Windblown sand rattled against the glass.

“The Harbor Island Spa was right up there on Ocean Avenue. That's where Little Pussy Russo lived. He and his brother were cat burglars, how he got the name. I used to see him around. They killed him in his apartment right there, '79, I think. It's gone now. They tore it down to build condos. Makes sense, though, right? Not something you want people to remember.”

He turned toward her. “What should I call you?”

“Crissa's fine.”

“That the name you gave at the desk?”

“I didn't give them anything.”

“Good for you. You'll get them all talking, wondering if I have a daughter I never told them about.”

“Or a girlfriend.”

“Even better.”

“I wouldn't put it past you.”

“I wish. Come on, let's sit.”

He lowered himself into a chair, one hand gripping the walker for support. She angled her chair toward his.

“What do you hear from our friend?” he said.

“Wayne sends his regards.”

“I heard he was back in.”

“Yes.”

“That's too bad. We made a lot of money back in the nineties, the three of us. Had a good run.”

“We did. You pointed us to some good work.”

“You weren't much more than a kid then, but you always used this.” He tapped his temple. “I was always impressed by that. When's he get out?”

“Soon, I hope. I'm working on it.”

“How long's he been in?”

“Three years.”

He shook his head, looked out at the ocean. “Makes you wonder if it's all worth it,” he said. “This life.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Jimmy Junior's been in and out of the jailhouse so much, his son hardly knows him. It was the same for Jimmy, growing up. And it's my fault. I started it.”

“What do you mean?”

“My old man was a tailor, up in Newark in the First Ward. Never stole a nickel in his life. Didn't like my running around the streets all day and night. Used to beat me with a barber's strop. Maybe he should have beat me harder.”

“You did all right. You lived your life. You didn't let it live you.”

“That the way you see it? What's important?”

“What else is there?”

“I lived my life, all right. And this is where it got me. But you didn't come down here to listen to an old man's regrets.”

“I ended up in the middle of something. I thought you might be able to help.”

“How?”

“Run some names by you. I know you're not calling the shots anymore—”

“I never did.”

“—but I thought you might have heard some things.”

“I still talk to people sometimes,” he said. “I've got ears. And a few teeth left in my head. What names?”

“Louis Letteri.”

He frowned. “You read about that in the papers?”

“Some of it.”

“Made me angry when I heard.”

She watched his eyes, wondering how much he knew, how much she should tell him. “Why?”

“This thing used to be about family, you know? Providing for them, protecting them. That's what the old-timers used to say. Now it's just about money. And staying out of jail.”

“I don't understand.”

“You know who his father-in-law is, right?”

“No.”

“Santino Conte. Tino. Used to have all the sports betting in North Jersey. Then he got ambitious, tried to climb the ladder. He's younger than me, but not by much. Never liked him.”

“Did you know Letteri?”

“No. After my time. What other names?”

“Vic Stimmer.”

“Never heard of him. Jersey?”

“Staten Island. He was involved with the card game down in Florida. The one where Letteri got killed.”

“Why do I think I'm not gonna like what's coming?”

She leaned closer, elbows on her thighs, hands clasped. “I was there.”