Cold Shot to the Heart (6 page)

“No. Just that the work-to-reward ratio was high. Not very labor-intensive. I got the impression he meant three, maybe four.”

She drank tea. Stimmer was a pro, but underestimating the work involved and crew needed was a common mistake. Greed sometimes led to undermanning. The times that happened, she'd tried to convince the organizers otherwise. If she couldn't, she walked.

She'd yet to put together a crew herself, though. She dealt almost exclusively with men, and many of them refused to take direction from a woman. When Wayne had run crews, she was his right hand, gave orders, made suggestions, and the others went along with it. Now she was on her own.

“So I'll tell him maybe?” Hector said.

“If I like what I hear. I want your sense of it first. If you get details and don't think it's worth it, that'll be it. I don't want the complication of hearing his pitch and then saying no. Makes people nervous.”

“He might not want to tell me. Might only want to talk to you.”

“Then he's out of luck,” she said.

SIX

When Terry pulled up in front of the house, there was a banged-up Schwinn on the open porch.

“Whose bike?” Eddie said

“It belongs to Cody,” Terry said. “He's a friend.”

“He always hang around your old lady when you're not home?”

“He stays here sometimes.”

“Whatever.”

They got out. It was late afternoon, the sky gray. Eddie had used some of Casco's money to buy new clothes, left the old ones in a Dumpster behind the motel. He wore a black trench coat and white roll-neck sweater, left the coat open. He liked the way it hung on him, like a duster.

They went up the slate path. The porch creaked under them.

“How long you lived here?” Eddie said.

“Couple months. Angie knows the owner.”

“Knows or blows?”

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind.”

When Terry opened the door, Eddie frowned at the smell that came out. Marijuana, fried food, and body odor.

They stepped into a hallway, stairs to the left, living room to the right. There was a sleeping bag on the floor there, a couch with threadbare arms, a recliner leaking stuffing. Empty beer bottles on a coffee table.

“Christ,” Eddie said. “Leave the door open.”

“Terry?” A woman's voice from upstairs, then slow footsteps coming down. Eddie looked up. The woman had stringy blond hair, wore faded jeans and a T-shirt. She'd been pretty once.

“Angie,” Terry said. “This is Eddie. I told you about him.”

Eddie nodded at her. She put a hand on her belly, as if to protect it.

“Hey,” a man's voice called from down the hall. “Close the fucking door.”

Eddie turned to Terry. He was looking at the floor.

Eddie went down the hall to the kitchen. A man with long, greasy hair and a Metallica T-shirt was sitting at a table, spooning soup from a bowl. He looked up when Eddie came in. He had big arms, blue snake tattoos curling around veiny biceps. He ate prison style, elbows on both sides of the bowl, protecting his food.

“Who the fuck are you?” he said.

“You Cody?”

“Who's asking?”

Eddie looked around. The stove was stained with food, the sink full of dishes. “Out.”

Cody looked at him, lifted another spoonful of soup, taking his time. Terry was watching from the hallway.

“You got ten seconds,” Eddie said. “Starting now.”

“You need to chill, pops. Who do you think you're talking to?”

“Nine.”

“Terry, who is this dude?”

“Eight.”

Eddie came around the table, took the bowl, and dumped it into the sink, soup splashing the dishes already there. Cody pushed away from the table, stood. He was a full head taller than Eddie, his chest and shoulders thick from a prison weight room.

“What the fuck is your problem, man? You want to get your ass tore up?”

“Seven.”

“You better—”

“One.” Eddie drove a heel into the outside of Cody's knee, his weight behind it. It snapped the leg in, and Cody cried out, bent. Eddie brought a knee up hard into his face, then headlocked him before he could fall. He dragged him through the kitchen and into the hall. Terry stepped aside. Angie watched from the stairs.

Cody was starting to flail by the time they reached the door. Eddie tightened his grip, cutting off his air. He slung him out onto the porch, then gave him a two-handed shove that sent him over the steps and onto the slate path. He landed hard on his side.

“Five seconds to be on your way,” Eddie said.

Cody rolled to his hands and knees. Blood dripped from his nose to the slate. Eddie picked up the bike, lifted it chest high, and flung it. It hit him, knocked him back on his side.

“Four.”

Cody looked at him, got slowly to his feet. “Man, I think you broke my nose.” His voice was thick. “You didn't have to do that.”

“Hold on,” Eddie said. He went back in the house, got the sleeping bag. It stank of sweat and smoke. He brought it out, tossed it off the porch.

“Take that with you. If I ever see you here again, I'll break your back.”

Cody wiped his face, picked up the sleeping bag, began to roll it.

“Three,” Eddie said. He came down the porch steps.

Cody tucked the half-rolled sleeping bag under his arm. He righted the bike, walked it to the sidewalk quickly. He dropped the sleeping bag, had to lean to pick it up, the bike almost falling over.

“Two,” Eddie said.

Cody got on the bike, started to pedal fast, unsteady at first. He looked back once. Eddie watched him ride away.

He went back in. Angie hadn't moved.

“We're going out,” he said to her. “While we're gone, clean this shithole up. Start with that kitchen.”

She looked at Terry. He looked away.

“What are you waiting for?” Eddie said to her. “Get at it.”

*   *   *

They were at the bottom of a dead-end street, sitting on a guardrail, looking out at the bay. Wind blew cold off the water. In the distance, the lights of fishing boats on the darkening horizon.

“This baby,” Eddie said. “You sure it's yours?”

Terry looked at him. “Why would you say something like that?”

“Just asking. Something to think about, though, you know. Before you start rearranging your life.”

“It's mine.”

“Sorry I mentioned it.”

“Angie's a good kid.”

“I'm sure she is. That guy was punking you, though. Whether you knew it or not.”

Terry looked off at the water.

“I don't know what you've been doing since I've been away,” Eddie said, “but I don't like what I've seen so far. You want to ride with me again, we need to get some things straight.”

Terry nodded, looked down.

“You can't go around with me looking like you do,” Eddie said. “Take that money I gave you, buy some clothes. For the girl, too.”

“Okay.”

“You want people's respect, you have to respect yourself first.”

Terry got lighter and cigarettes out. With the wind, it took him four tries to get one lit.

“I called Tino today,” Eddie said.

“What did he say?”

“He might have something for us soon. I'm going to meet him later this week. He owes me. He knows that.”

“Why?”

“Because the last favor I did him cost me five years. That dealer I shot in the knee in Passaic, he was pushing up on one of Tino's niggers. Tino paid for the lawyer, yeah, but I'm the one did the time. And for the appeal, I had to hire another one myself. You think he'd leave his idiot son, or one of his
cumbadis,
twisting in the wind like that?”

“I thought you guys were tight.”

“Tino's not tight with anyone. He's a fucking paranoid individual. Always has been, and I've known him thirty years. And I'm only half Italian, you know? So he trusts me even less. Half Italian, half spic, and I don't speak either.”

Terry blew smoke out.

“You don't look too happy,” Eddie said. “Way you've been living, I thought you'd be glad to see me.”

“I am, it's just…”

“What?”

“I don't know. I didn't expect all this shit to start over again so soon, I guess.”

“What shit? Didn't I put twelve grand in your pocket the other day? I thought you'd be happy making white man's money again.”

“I just didn't understand it, that's all.”

“Understand what?”

“If he was promising to get all your money back in a couple days, if he could actually do it, why kill him?”

“You been stewing about that? That what's been bothering you?”

“I was just thinking. If he was offering to pay you…”

“He wasn't going to pay me. Not after I braced him like that. He was going to shine me on, then find some way to weasel out of it. Go crying to Tino. Or, if he grew balls, pay someone to whack me.”

“Why?”

“Because he was scared of me. Sometimes, when you get hard with people, you have to finish it right there, whether they deserve it or not. Because there's always the chance they'll come back at you somewhere down the road. That twenty-five K was all I was ever going to get out of him, and we both knew it.”

Terry tossed his cigarette into the water.

“You saw it when we were on the tier together,” Eddie said. “Guys don't get stabbed because they owe money and can't pay. Guys get stabbed because they
lent
money, and the poor fucker who borrowed it is afraid what'll happen if he doesn't pay, so he makes the first move. Casco would have bided his time, given me a few bucks here and there. Then he would have moved on me. No way around it.”

“He used Tino's name.”

“I stopped living my life worrying about what Tino thinks. He'll get over it.”

“What are you going to do now?”

Eddie stood. “Make some moves. See what I can get going again. Feels like I've been away a long time.”

“It was worse this time, wasn't it?”

“In Rahway? Only thing I missed was having your sweet ass around to do my laundry, make my bed.”

“Cut it out.”

Eddie put an arm around his neck, squeezed, tugged him off the rail. Terry pushed at him, and Eddie laughed, released him, shoved him gently away.

“Seriously, kid. Think about it. Three years in the same cell together, I could have fucked you any time I wanted. But I never did. I was a gentleman.”

“Don't even joke about that, man.”

“Better me than some brothers, right? One of them holding a shank to your throat while the others pull a train.”

“That shit ain't funny.”

“I'm just screwing with you. Come on, let's go.”

They started back toward the house.

“You want to come in?” Terry said. “I think there's some beers in the refrigerator.”

“I go back in there, I'll never get the stink off me. Some other time. Drive me back to the motel.”

When they reached the El Camino, Eddie said, “Your woman. How pregnant is she?”

“Four months, about. She's just starting to show.”

“She got a doctor?”

“The clinic. There's one in Keyport.”

“Fuck that. Take that money, find a real doctor. His eyes'll light up when he sees that cash. If anybody asks, tell them you won it at the track. They won't turn you away. I guarantee that.”

“Thanks.”

Eddie put a hand on his shoulder, squeezed.

“Stick with me, kid,” he said. “Things are about to get a lot better for both of us. I can feel it.”

SEVEN

Crissa parked the rented Honda in the trees, looked up the long gravel driveway to the farmhouse. Lights on inside, two cars parked in the side yard, a dark barn beyond.

She slipped out of the car, made her way up through the trees. She wore a black Aran sweater, jeans, and boots. In the right-hand pocket of her leather jacket was a snub-nosed .38. Wayne had given it to her not long after they'd met. She'd gotten it from the safe deposit box at the bank on 101st that afternoon. She never kept guns in the apartment.

A light over the side door lit the two cars. One was a blue Ford Focus, Jersey plates, a rental. The second was a sleek black BMW with tinted windows and New York plates.

She checked the barn first. A side wall and part of the roof had collapsed. Nothing inside but rubble. She moved back toward the house, laid her hand on the Ford's hood, could feel the warmth through her glove. The BMW was as cold as the night.

Curtains on the side window. She could see a figure moving inside, hear voices. She took out the .38. It was nickel plated with mother-of-pearl grips, the serial number removed with acid. It was untraceable, had never been used in a crime.

She tucked it in the Y of a dead tree. If it was a setup inside, law, she didn't want it on her. This way, if she had to run, needed it then, she'd be able to reach it quick.

She knocked at the side door. Silence, then the scrape of chairs. She stepped back. Footsteps inside and then Stimmer was there, peering through the glass, right hand hidden behind his leg. He wore a commando sweater under a dark parka. He looked past her, to right and left. She waited while he worked locks.

“Crissa,” he said when the door was open. “Long time.”

He stepped aside as she came in. He was bulky through the neck and shoulders, a weight lifter. The last work they'd done together, a supermarket payroll in Muncie, Indiana, had been three years ago. He'd run it well, and she'd come home with seventy-eight grand, one of her first times working without Wayne.

He locked the door again, led her down a hall into an ancient kitchen. There was an oversized refrigerator with an old-fashioned latch, the enamel yellow with age. Patches of the linoleum floor were worn through to the wood.