Nine Fingers (32 page)

“But we can talk this thing through,” Ridlin said. “Let’s just talk about the options—”

“Talk, talk, talk,” Chase said. “What a waste of fucking time.”

“But you’ve got nothing to lose by talking. Maybe there’s a way to settle this. Maybe—”

“Enough with the fucking bullshit,” the Nephew said.

Ridlin stood up, took a step toward the Don. “This is stupid,” he said angrily, “the two of them aren’t hurting anybody. But
three people are dead, the cops are in a full-court press, you’ve got to be feeling the heat, I mean, what the hell is the
point?”

He took another step forward.

A shot rang out, and Ridlin fell to his knees, curled to his right, and crumpled to the floor, all in slow motion. A puff
of smoke wafted up from the gun that had appeared in Chase’s hand.

We all stood there, frozen. He turned and pointed the gun at me. I put my hands in the air.

He turned to Akiko and sneered. “You see? This is why I gave up that martial-arts shit. You assume the Cobra Posture and people
will look at you like you are out of your fucking mind. You pull out a Glock Nine and they will stop what they’re doing and
put their hands in the air. Much more efficient. Plus you don’t have all that fucking practice.”

I looked over and saw the Cleaner working a key into his handcuffs, and just like that he had them off, both sets, and was
standing up, rubbing his wrists. He leaned over, tucked the key into his sock. Did the Don slip it to him, I asked myself?
Did he have it all along?

I started to back toward the piano. It was big, it was solid, it was something I knew.

My eyes flicked to a small metal junction box next to the old upright, with two electrical cables coming out of it and two
toggle switches on its side, a handmade thing with a popsicle stick duct-taped across its base. I tried to remember what those
switches did, why the popsicle stick was there. My brain was racing, but it was stuck in neutral: revving, spinning, frantic.

The Accountant walked over toward the edge of the stand. He was about to step off. Chase held up his hand, and stopped him
on the edge. “Where’s our money?” he asked.

I reached down and flipped the switch on the left, and the bandstand started turning with a jolt. The Accountant stepped back,
off balance, and grabbed the railing to stabilize himself. My memory clicked in: I knew what the switches were for.

“Where’s our money?” the Nephew asked. The Accountant opened his mouth to speak.

I flipped the switch on the right, and all the player pianos, mechanical trumpets, violins, saxophones, trombones, and drums
along the walls started playing “When the Saints Go Marching In.” The whole thing was horribly out of tune, and the cacophony
was deafening. The bandstand was turning counterclockwise, slowly.

I reached for the switch on the left and tried to jam it down further. I pried off the popsicle stick that was taped under
it and leaned on the switch, but the switch kept popping back up. I reached into my pocket, took out my tuning fork, my A-440,
and jammed it down onto the switch, the tines trapping it between them, and the top wedged tight against the housing. It held.
The bandstand started to gain velocity. In a few seconds it was racing at carousel speed, and I had to grab hold of the old-fashioned
bolted-down piano stool to keep from spinning off.

The Accountant tried to shout over the din, and Chase cupped his hand to his ear but couldn’t hear him. Chase’s gun exploded,
cutting through the cacophony, and a bullet whanged into the piano next to my shoulder. I scooted deeper behind the stool.
He stood there and waited for the bandstand to come full circle. When it did, he faced the Accountant and shouted over the
din, a few syllables each revolution, “Where is…our fucking…money?”

The next time around the Accountant pointed at the floor beneath the table where Ridlin was slumped over, dead. The Nephew
followed his finger over. The Don reached over, picked the briefcase up an inch off the ground, testing its heft. He nodded.

The Accountant was holding on to the pole, and each time he came around to the open spot near Chase he would reach a dainty
foot out toward the floor, then pull it back. He was smiling and frowning at the same time. As he came around toward where
he had started, Chase looked up at him. “Thanks,” he yelled, tonelessly. “And by the way,” he said, waiting a revolution,
“you fucked up,” he said, “you’re fired,” and shot him in the forehead. The Accountant flew off the edge of the bandstand,
but his foot caught on the railing post, and the carousel started to drag him around, facedown, leaving a dark red smear behind
him. His body was knocking furniture out of the way as he made the circuit, and as he came back around again Chase had to
hop back to avoid him.

Laura suddenly stood up in her booth and turned to Chase. “Why are you doing this, Johnny?” Her voice was tight, her eyes
were blazing. “What does it have to do with you? You have no idea who these people are, you have no idea at all!”

He looked over at Laura and Akiko, and said, “That’s the thing about me. I’ve got
lots
of ideas. We’re barely getting started on all the ideas I have,” and he pointed the gun at Akiko.

A shot rang out, and Akiko jumped back. She looked at her chest, but there was no blood there. A red bloom of it was spreading
across Chase’s abdomen. I looked around. Ridlin was lying on the floor, not moving.

Then I saw Jack Landreau. He was standing with Ridlin’s extra gun in his hand. A wisp of smoke drifted up from the barrel.
Chase turned and saw him, and chuckled. “Yeah, I deserved that,” he said. “It wasn’t about her. No, this is the fucking cunt
that started this mess, this is the fucking cunt that needs it. Right, cuz?” His leaned back, leveled the pistol, and shot
Laura, twice.

The first bullet hit her in the chest, and she fell back, hitting a chair. The second caught her under her chin, and she slithered
to the floor. Akiko went down with her, holding on tightly, screaming. She grabbed Laura, held her tight, sobbing. Chase advanced
on her.

Another shot crackled, Chase’s left leg buckled, and he staggered. Jack was still there, holding the gun. A gun appeared in
the Don’s hand and he turned and fired at Jack, and caught him in the neck. He went down, falling to his left, dropping the
gun, clutching his throat, blood arcing everywhere. Chase turned and loomed over him. He tilted his body back and aimed his
gun at Jack’s head. Akiko jumped up, screaming, took two steps to her left, then wheeled to her right, swung her left leg
up and kicked him in his throat. He went down in a heap, and she leaped behind him, chopped the gun from his hand, and got
his head in a leg-lock, his neck bending at a sickening angle.

The bandstand jerked, sparks shot out of the junction box and it ground to a halt. The music wound down, each instrument fading
at its own pace.

Akiko looked at the Don and yelled, “Put your gun on the table, now, or I’ll break his neck! Put it down!”

The Nephew’s face was starting to turn blue. The stain was spreading across his shirt. You couldn’t tell it was blood against
the black; it looked like he had spilled a drink on it.

The Don turned to the Cleaner. “She’s a tarantula, this one, isn’t she? Would you take care of her for me?”

The Cleaner took two steps forward, and looked down at him, a frown on his face.

“Put the gun down!” Akiko shouted. “Put the fucking gun down!”

The Cleaner turned to the Don. “Why are we doing this?” he asked. “These people, they’re no threat to us. This isn’t business.”

“Put the gun down!” Akiko screamed. “He’s your flesh and blood! Do you want me to kill him?”

The Cleaner crossed in front of me. I reached into the cast with my right arm and pulled out the little twenty-two, held it
up against the back of his neck, and cocked it. “Don’t move,” I said. “It’s loaded.”

He stood still.

I called out to the Don. “Maybe you don’t care about your nephew, but this is your
friend.
Put the gun on the table or I’ll pull the trigger!”

“Put the gun down!” Akiko echoed. “Put it down!”

The Don hesitated, a crease forming between his eyebrows. He sighed. His arm started to move.

“No,” the Cleaner said. “Don’t do it. I’m dead anyway.”

“Dead?” the Don asked, incredulous. “You’re standing right here. What—”

“Put the fucking gun down!” Akiko yelled, her voice starting to break.

“As good as dead. Got maybe a month, maybe two. It’s the cancer.”

The Don was frantic. “We can get you help. We can get you doctors. The best doctors. What’s in that bag alone is enough to
pay for whatever it takes. Whatever it is, we can get it fixed. We can get a transplant, the things they can do—”

“No, they can’t,” he said. “It’s the pancreas. No operations, no chemo. Just pills, for the pain, and they ain’t working much
anymore. A matter of time is all. Might as well be now.”

He and the Don locked eyes.

“Don’t go saving me, Zep. Be doing me a favor, tell you the truth.”

“No!” the Don yelled. “This is not acceptable! I am not going to let you die…” His face was turning red. His eyes were
wild; he looked frantic. He rose out of his chair, took a deep breath, and turned toward the two of us.

The Cleaner took one step forward and I clubbed him on the skull with the pistol. He went down to his knees, holding his head.
I had hit him hard, but he was just dazed, not out. I bent down over him, the gun still pointed at him.

The Don raised his gun up to shoulder level, aimed it casually at me.

“This is not your thing, is it? Drop the gun, you might walk out of here in one piece.”

His gun had lowered while he talked. He raised it up again, aimed it, cocked it.

A shot rang out. And another. I flinched. The Don went all loose and slid to the floor. Behind him, Ridlin was leaning up
on one elbow, his gun trying to hold its aim, and failing. He grunted and flopped back down, groaning.

Della Chiesa looked at the blood in his hand with shock in his eyes, then craned his neck up toward the Cleaner.

“Josef,” he said.

“Zep.”

The Don’s mouth opened and blood poured out of it. His eyebrows moved up in surprise and he toppled forward.

My skin felt tighter than Akiko’s snare drum. I looked around and all I saw was death.

The Cleaner was still kneeling in front of me. Chase was still caught between Akiko’s thighs. She must have relaxed her grip,
because he started to croak, “Kill them…Fucking kill them…”

The Cleaner staggered to his feet and stepped off the bandstand.

“Stop!” I yelled.

He didn’t. I hopped off the bandstand and followed him, waving the gun wildly.

He walked over to where Ridlin was lying. Reached for his neck, felt for a pulse. He lifted up his coat, looked at where he
had been shot.

He looked over at us and chuckled. “The Riddler strikes again,” he said, chuckling. “Looks like he got shot right through
the scar. Same place as before. See? He’ll live.”

He stood up. He looked at Akiko. She had relaxed her grip, but was still in control.

“Go ahead,” he said to her. “Finish it.”

She squinted up at him.

He nodded slowly to himself. “You don’t want to. Not your nature. Not what you would do, you had the choice, right? Doesn’t
matter. He killed Laura, your lover. He killed her for no reason. You have to finish it.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” the Nephew croaked. “Kill her! Kill them all.”

“See?” the Cleaner asked. “Go ahead. Finish it. Do it quick or do it slow. You can do that, right? Either way, right? All
that dojo stuff?”

She nodded, but her eyes were pleading with him.

“I’ll do it, you want me to,” he said. “But it should be you. You don’t, he’s going to kill you. He’s going to kill the piano
player here. He’s going to kill me. You know this, right?”

He stared at her.

“I kill him, it’s me doing you a favor. Later on it’ll be worse, ’cause you couldn’t do it yourself.”

She straightened up, looked him in the eyes. She looked like she saw something there. She turned her head, looked at me. There
was no pleading in her, no questioning.

I may have nodded. I may have trembled. I may have stood there, frozen.

She leaned back on her elbows. I saw her legs clench, just a twitch.

The Nephew slumped against her, his mouth open, his eyes open, his hands by his sides.

Akiko scrambled to her feet. Her face was flushed; she was breathing hard.

The Cleaner looked at her. “It’ll change,” he said. “How you feel about it, it’ll change.”

Akiko looked at him, sideways.

He walked over, stopped, turned toward me.

“One bullet,” he said. “In the head. Quick. Simple.”

I jumped. “What the
fuck
are you talking about?” I shouted.

“You got to shoot me, got to finish it,” he said.

“No fucking way! We’re calling nine-one-one and you’re going away. Let them handle it. You can rot in jail until you die and
feel the pain all the way to the end, for all I care!”

He looked around the room, then looked at me.

“Two things,” he said. “One. I start walking, you have to shoot me, right?”

“I could shoot you in the leg,” I was saying it but I wasn’t believing it.

“So I limp toward my dead friend. Get his gun. Point the gun at Ms. Jones here. What you gonna do? Shoot me, the other leg?
You have to kill me. Eventually. That’s the thing, see?”

He was right, but I didn’t say so.

“Two,” he said. “What you gonna tell them, the cops? Got an explanation for all this, this…?” He waved his arm around
the room. I couldn’t look at all the dead bodies. My eyes blurred them into geometric shapes with slashes of bright color.
There was a metallic taste in the air.

“Nobody left to back you up. Just you and the drummer girl,” he continued. “Ridlin’ll live, but he’s out of it. Won’t remember
a thing. What kind of story you gonna come up with? How long you think you can both stick to it? Want to spend the next two
years talking to the cops? Lawyers? CNN? The
Trib
? The
Sun-Times,
for Christ’s sake?”