Run (24 page)

There’s only one way to find out, so—

I’m goin.

It’s Jinx, whispering in my ear.

I don’t even get the chance to tell him no.

Ain’t nobody expectin me, he says. I’ll check it out, circle round there. He points to the far side of the house, to that Thomas O’Toole guy’s place, the house next door. Then, he says, we make our play.

Okay, I tell him. But—

I know, he tells me. Stay loose.

Then he’s gone, melting into the shadows of the tall shrubs. I catch sight of him, a glimpse in the faded sunlight, as he breaks cover and dashes past the corner of my house. And then he’s gone again. And gone. And gone.

I look at my watch and I look at my watch and after I look enough times at that hand ticking off the minutes I know I can’t wait anymore. So I back off to the hurricane fence and I decide, what the hell, I’m going to take a walk down the sidewalk, a walk down my street, so I double back two yards over and then I’m out and I’m walking down the street, my street, and there’s nothing out of place, nothing but that car at the curb, and I walk until I reach that Thomas O’Toole guy’s house, but Jinx isn’t there, so I cut through the backyard and into ours, hoping O’Toole’s dog isn’t out. I pull one of my Glocks and hold it tight to my thigh and I go nice and slow, stepping through the bushes, into the flower bed, easy does it, sorry about the daffodils, Fiona, and pretty soon I’m peeking in the kitchen window.

Nothing doing.

Along the side of the house, to the next window, the one to the dining room, and it’s an eerie feeling, skulking in the shadows outside your own house, looking for trouble and fearing what you might find, and all the time hearing the voice of Jinx, hearing that stone-cold killer saying
Where is her head, man? Where is her head?

Nothing doing. Then something. A shadow leaking out of the living room and into the dining room. Somebody is inside, somebody moving.
Barely moving. I look hard at the shadow, read the upside-down contour of that somebody, and it’s somebody sitting. Jinx. It’s Jinx, sitting.

I duck beneath the dining room window and move to the next window, that’s the living room, and I take a quick peek and it’s all I need. I ease back out of the flower bed and onto the grass, and I double-time it around to the back door, and I step out of my shoes and I key the lock so slowly, push the door so quietly, and I’m through the kitchen and I’m through the den and I’m behind them.

Cops.

Don’t move, I tell them. Don’t do nothing. You might even take a pass on breathing for a minute or so here.

Alexandria PD. There’s two of them. They’re wearing street uniforms, those steel grey shirts, and ain’t equal employment opportunity grand. First we got an Asian cop—Chinese, Japanese, Korean, whatever—and then we got a dyke cop, with the chopped boy’s haircut and all.

I got a Glock nine-millimeter, I tell them. It’s pointed at your backs and it’s loaded with AP rounds. It’ll blow through your body armor like it’s Kleenex, folks. So you stay right there, you don’t do a damn thing, and I promise you: Everything will be just fine.

The five-ohs aren’t even holding their service pieces on Jinx and how the fuck they got the drop on him I don’t know. He’s sitting on the couch with this defiant calm, looking at the cops like they’re boring relatives who won’t go home after Thanksgiving dinner.

Stay loose, now, I say. Just stay loose. I am making you a promise here. Nobody gets hurt. Everything will be just fine. That’s a promise, okay? But you have to give my friend there on the couch your guns. Do it left-handed. Do it butt first. And do it slow. You first, fella.

So they’re smart cops. They hand over their guns.

Okay. Now give him your radios.

They pass their walkies to Jinx. I give him the nod, and he drops the radios to the ground, grinds each of them to junk under his size twelve boots.

I step in closer, yank the cuffs from the guy cop’s belt, drop and do a quick check of their ankles. No backup weapons. Then I’m standing and breathing a bit more easily.

I keep my Glock on them and start making a wide circle toward Jinx.

Okay. Now here’s what we’re gonna do. My friend here, he’s gonna take these handcuffs—

I toss them to Jinx.

And he’s gonna—

That’s when the voice comes sneaking out of the shadows and taps me on the shoulder:

Well done, Mr. Lane. Very well done.

I knock the lampstand toward the den. Light flares and the shadows run away, and there’s this guy sitting in the easy chair.

My house. My den. My easy chair.

The guy looks like he stepped down off Mount Rushmore. Grey hair, grey face, grey suit. A monument. He might as well have the word federal chiseled into his forehead.

Jinx has the bead on the uniforms. I flip the wall switch and the den goes bright and I get more of the same. This guy couldn’t be more government if his picture was on a dollar bill.

Hey, I say to the Mount Rushmore guy. Where’s my—And I start to say wife, I do, I really do. I don’t know what I could be thinking. So I say: Girl? Where’s Fiona?

She’s here, the Mount Rushmore guy says.

Is she okay? I say.

She’s fine, the Mount Rushmore guy says.

So where is she? I want to see her. I need to see her.

Go right ahead, the Mount Rushmore guy says.

I’m out of there and I’m into our bedroom and I’m out of the bedroom and I’m into the other bedroom and I’m out of there, and there’s nowhere else, I check the bathroom, and there’s nowhere else but the basement, and I’m back to the Mount Rushmore guy and he’s got this grin I’d like to slap right off his face and I turn to Jinx and the cops and I look at Jinx and I look at the dink cop and I look at the dyke cop, and that’s when I say to Jinx:

Oh, shit.

I look at the dyke cop again. Walk over to her again.

I knock her hat off, take in the cropped hair, the cool eyes, the taut
lips, the body squared off by the uniform and the vest, the badge, the fucking badge, and of course the dyke cop is Fiona.

So what do I tell her? I tell her:

Nice haircut, babe. Kind of sassy. Is that what the girls call it, down at the salon where you work but you don’t work? Professional, yes, but … sassy. Though I got to tell you something, Fiona. I do think I prefer it long.

I start to lean in closer, read the name plate above the badge, but I cannot do that. I cannot do that.

Jesus Christ, Fiona. Jesus fucking Christ.

And before I can think of any other brilliant insights, the Mount Rushmore guy comes out of his dramatic pause and says:

You’re compiling quite a résumé, Mr. Lane. We’d heard some fine things about you, but … this is impressive, indeed. In addition to violating almost every federal statute involving firearms, ammunition, and export control, not to mention the laws of the several states you’ve frequented these past few days, we have racketeering and we have conspiracy and we have murder.

And of course, the Mount Rushmore guy says, nodding toward Jinx, there is the matter of your … relationship … with assassins.

His lips pucker ever so slightly and he tents his hands at his chin, the pose of a contemplative, right-thinking man, and I really don’t have time for this shit.

So what’s it to you, pal?

No, Mr. Lane. You’re asking the wrong question. The question is: What is it to
you?
And the answer, Mr. Lane, is rather apparent, I should think. The answer, if we get you, is life. But if they get you?

The hands pull apart and he offers what is supposed to be one of those magnanimous gestures.

I think we both understand the situation, Mr. Lane. And in this sort of circumstance—well, I believe there’s a television game-show host who said it best: Let’s make a deal.

That grey face gives me a grey smile before the punch line:

So what do you say?

What I say is this. I say:

I got two words for you, pal.
Fuck
and
you
.

That puts his hands in his lap and sits him back in the chair.

Burdon?

It’s Fiona. The cop with the dyke haircut, I mean. Whatever her name is. I have to keep calling her Fiona or I’m going to go right out of my mind.

Burdon? she says. Why is this so difficult? Trey Costa is safe. We took him in on a two-bit weapons charge, sent him to Richmond, and he’s out of the way. Safe. We can do the same thing for you.

I can’t even look at her. The Mount Rushmore guy and I are having our own little stare down. Maybe he thinks I’m going to show him something, wide eyes, maybe, or a little sweat. But he’d better think again, because he’s going to lose.

Damn it, Burdon, she says. We think we know what happened up there. But you know. You saw it happen. You have to tell us. We want these people.

No, you don’t, I tell her. You don’t want these people. You want a little law, a little order. You want collars. You want indictments. You want plea bargains. You want jury trials. You want convictions. You want prison terms. You want lots and lots of press conferences. And then you want bigger budgets. That’s what you want.

Mr. Lane. It’s the Mount Rushmore guy again. At the risk of melodrama, he says, I should tell you that this affair is not going to end quietly. We had a man inside. Sadly, he didn’t do us much good. But—

Jinx shouts across the room: That’s the problem with you, suit. You always got a man inside, don’t you? But what did he know? What did you tell him? What did
you
know? Fuck, he says. Then to me:

Tell em, Jinx says. Go on. Tell em, man.

I tell them nothing.

The Mount Rushmore guy pretends that Jinx isn’t in the room. Pretends that this is a meeting with a bunch of suits sitting around a polished oak conference table in some tall building with a picture of the President on the wall and the Stars and Stripes flying outside.

He clears his throat and makes the tent with his hands again.

Mr. Lane. We are prepared to give you prosecutorial immunity. Full immunity. Absolute immunity. Federal and state.

Then Fiona says: And protection.

The Mount Rushmore guy closes his eyes like he’s weighing the thought before he says:

And protection. WITSEC. The Federal Witness Security Program. Relocation, new identity, the whole nine yards.

I look at my pal Jinx. I look at Mount Rushmore. Finally I look at Fiona.

Fuck you, I tell her, but I guess I’ve done that already. So I tell her: I don’t talk. Maybe I’m the one. Maybe I’m the last one. But I don’t talk.

Jesus, man. Jinx is halfway to having a fit. We got a way out of here, he says. Not just for you and for me, but for my crew.

You want to shut the fuck up? Do you know who this is?

I’m pointing the pistol at Fiona.

Have you got any idea who this is? Let me tell you, man. Let me tell you. It’s the woman who has been living with me for the past four months. It’s the woman who’s been sleeping with me for the past four months. Do you understand what I’m saying?

There’s a wicked smile trying to creep onto my face.

I’m supposed to make a deal … with this?

My chest is hurting. I want to pull the trigger. I want to, I need to, I have to.

Finally I tell him: I already made my deal.

I want to show him my deal. I want to show him my home, not my house but my home, three days ago. I want to show him Fiona and me, me and Fiona, I want to show him what was and what never will be, and I can’t do anything but say:

I made my deal. And this is what I get. Cops in my house.

Mr. Lane—

It’s the Mount Rushmore guy again. I point the pistol back his way. But I don’t look at him. I don’t ever want to look at this guy again.

I look only at Fiona, and I tell her:

I don’t want your immunity. I don’t need your immunity. I don’t need anything you can give me. Especially protection.

And then I say to the Mount Rushmore guy, I say: You had more than a man inside. You made the deal, didn’t you? You made it happen. Didn’t you?
Didn’t you?

Because I see it now, not all of it but enough to know that the guys who took delivery, the white guys, Mr. Branch Manager and his two buddies, were Feds. And that the Feds were the ones who made the run happen. Somehow they brokered the deal with the 9 Bravos. To get us to work with U Street, to get us to New York, to get us to sell them guns, to get UniArms and U Street locked down for life. The bearer bonds in my pocket belong to them.

Jesus Christ. Jinx is right: What did they know? What the fuck did they know?

I tell the Mount Rushmore guy:

There’s only one way you’re gonna get what you want. And that’s if I walk out of here. I’m gonna do that now. And you know what? Whether you like it or you don’t like it, you’re gonna have to sit there and look at it.

Then I say to Jinx:

Cover these people. I got to get something.

I find my way to the kitchen. I look at the picture of my mother for the last time, and I tell her: Night, Mom.

What? It’s Jinx, calling from the living room.

Nothing. I’m doing fine. Just talking to a photo. You worry about those folks, okay? Cuff the old guy and stick him in the closet there. It’s a gun closet, locks from the outside. Then cuff the cops to each other.

I take the photo of my mother and I fold it over once, twice. Put it in an ashtray. Strike a match and set it afire. It goes up pretty quick and I like that. It feels like it’s time to make things burn.

I walk down the hall and kick open the cheap sheet of drywall beneath the clock, whoops, there goes the Laura Ashley wallpaper, and I pull the leather satchel, my get-out bag, from its cubbyhole. Inside the satchel are clean IDs and credit cards, a counterfeit passport, a cool twenty thou in cash, another Glock 19 with ten mags of ammo, a houndstooth jacket, and the keys to a self-storage shed that no one—and I do mean no one—is wise to, in a place in North Carolina called High Point. I go to the bedroom, open the top drawer of the dresser, and take the wedding invitation. Then it’s the closet, I need a new pair of shoes. I reach into the corner and lift out the Remington Home Security shotgun
that I gave to Fiona, the one she was scared to shoot, ha-ha. The one I keep loaded just in case. Just in fucking case.