Simple Intent (27 page)

“Park over there.” Jeremy directed Banning to a dark corner of the convenience store lot. He pushed the duffle bags to the floor.

Sailor stepped out, stretched and looked around. It would have been pretty here if someone had cared enough to keep it up. She was no stranger to the country. Her Dad still took her to the lake house every year where they fished and paddled into tiny coves and bought their groceries from small stores like this one. Although in Connecticut they parked their Mercedes next to Range Rovers and Corvette convertibles, not pick-up trucks and Oldsmobiles, and they finished their meals with cognac and Cubans not Camels and Budweiser. 

Sailor and Banning followed Jeremy across the parking lot to the bar. 

Jeremy stood at the open door, saw the jukebox had taken a few rounds. Someone had dragged it away from the wall and pulled the plug. Twinkling Christmas lights that used to hang neatly over the bar drooped and dangled in a heap on the glass-strewn floor, their pattern of light and dark sending out a mysterious Morse code. A big cop knelt on the dance floor, cradling a woman’s head in his wide lap.

Another cop was head-to-head with a bloody, disheveled blonde at a corner table. The blonde cried and wiped her eyes and nose with a paper towel, smearing snot and blood and tears across her face. 

Across the room a man lay dead on the dance floor. It was easy to see he was dead. He was the one no one tended to. The one no one looked at. The spotlight that used to illuminate Theater Date Barbie, in her exquisite emerald green satin suit with matching pillbox hat, now shined on the dead man. A man Jeremy recognized as JR Pantaglioni. Junior Pants. One of Gallo’s boys. They were in the right place after all.

Jeremy whispered something to Sailor then said louder, “You might want to wait out here.” He tipped his chin to Banning, motioning for him to go first.

Banning stepped over the landing. 

“We’re closed.” The voice came from the blonde on the barstool. 

She spoke to their fractured reflections in the broken mirror, and rolling a glass between her hands she added, “For repairs,” then drained her drink and set the empty glass next to an empty bottle and heaved herself off the stool. 

“I’ll be outside, having a smoke,” she said to no one in particular. 

The cop with the bloody-faced blonde said, “Don’t go far, Kenita. We’ll need your statement too.” 

She raised her hand halfway, as if the rest of the gesture was too much effort, and kept walking.

Banning and Jeremy stepped out of the doorway and into the bar to allow her to pass. They looked around trying to appear thirsty, not curious. 

“I’m going to have to ask you fellas to leave.” 

The guy was like a lizard blending into his surroundings. Small little guy like that. What was he, a midget? Jeremy hadn’t even seen him there. 

“Need to protect the crime scene,” the cop said, waving his arm over the shot-up bar. “You understand, now.”

Banning said, “Hey, is that a 1971 Live Action Ken?’ He walked past Officer Tiny, past the overturned tables and over the broken glass. He glanced at the dead man, the fat cop and the wounded woman.

The small cop made noises with his mouth, then gave up and turned his attention to Jeremy. The other cops weren’t sure what to do with this Ken-loving guy and his beefed-up pal.

“He was a birthday present from my Dad,” Barbie said. She tried to sit up; the fat cop helped. “He said it would give Barbie someone to argue with.” She laughed sharply then winced and grabbed the bandage on her side. “Go ahead, batteries should still be good.” 

Banning ran his finger over the fringes of the doll’s suede vest and his molded plastic hair, then hit the switch that set the stand vibrating and made Ken dance. 

The fat cop yelled, “Hey!”

Banning turned the switch off and looked over his shoulder.

But the cop was speaking to Barbie, not him. “I didn’t know he could do that. How come you never showed me before?”

Barbie shrugged. “You never asked.”

The cop was about to say something, then remembered he wasn’t here for a history of collector dolls. He called to the tiny cop, “Duane, get these guys out of here, will you?” 

“It’s okay. We were just leaving,” Banning said.

Duane stood in the doorway, hands on his hips, and watched Sailor, Banning and Jeremy drive away. Kenita tipped her chin at the low-slung car. “Hope he doesn’t hit a deer in that thing. He won’t stand a chance.” 

In the car, Banning looked from Jeremy to Sailor. “What are we looking for?” 

Sailor glanced back at the bar. The small cop sat on the steps with Kenita. “She told me Reilly’s in a white van. The guy went after him in a red pickup.” Sailor looked at Jeremy. “He’s got a gun.” 

Jeremy smiled. “So do we.” He told Banning, “Head north. That’s where they’ll be. Then all we have to do is listen.” Banning looked confused. 

Paris heard Maria’s voice change from calm, cool and confident to something unfamiliar: hesitant; questioning.

She cracked open the door. Deluca had his back to the bathroom. Maria stood by the window, her face in shadows. There was a bright light on them from the building across the way. Paris checked her watch. Damn that Taylor Dunne. She was early. Paris was about to close the door and dial Taylor to give her an earful when Deluca shifted his position and she saw the gun. 

“Shit,” she whispered, easing the door shut. “Shit. Shit, shit.” She stabbed the buttons on her cell phone and sucked in a big breath.

Taylor answered immediately. “Paris! Sweetie! Where are you? The light is fantastic! I’m getting the whole thing. This is going to go national! You know that, don’t you? My God, you are brilliant. How did you know he’d go for the gun? This is my Pulitzer.”

Paris tried to muffle the bubbly voice of Taylor Dunne by jamming the phone harder against her ear. She cupped her hand around her mouth and whispered, “I didn’t.” 

Finally, silence. She steeled her jaw. “Taylor, listen to me. The gun is loaded. Do you understand? It’s loaded and it’s old. This is not fantastic, Taylor. Maria could get hurt. I could get hurt. This wasn’t part of the plan.”

“No. This is better! See, it’s more than you exposing Deluca, more than you bringing down Montgomery. This is big, Paris. This is Mafia-big. ”

Paris whispered, “Just get the cops up here, will you?” She hung up then looked at herself in the mirror. What the hell are you doing? She braced herself on the edge of the sink, took a deep breath and came up with Plan B.

Bursting from the bathroom, Paris said, “Damn cell phones!” She kept her eyes on the phone’s display. “I can’t get a signal in there. I’ll just step out in the hallway and make the call.” 

“Wait,” Deluca said.

Paris kept walking. It was only the sound of the Colt’s slide being drawn back that stopped her. She squeezed her face up, exhaled through her teeth then turned slowly. 

She said, “What are you doing?” She walked toward him gesturing broadly with her arms, to both make her point to the armed attorney and send a message to Taylor and the room of TV cameras across the alley. 

“Come on,” she said. “You got what you came for, let’s go. Don’t do this.”

Like all things unexpected, the miniature tape recorder chose that precise moment to click off. Deluca snapped his head toward the sound, dropping his bead on Paris. 

Maria saw the opportunity and lunged for Deluca. They went down in a flurry of terrycloth robe and imported pinstripes. Maria lashing out with her long nails, Deluca bloody-cheeked and throwing slaps and wild punches with his free hand. They rolled around, with Maria getting in a good gouge to Deluca’s eye. When he fell back, she went for the gun. He got to his feet, pulled his arm free and slapped her with the back of his hand and the gun barrel, cutting her lip and cheek. Then he switched hands and yanked her up with a fistful of hair. 

“Still feisty as ever,” he said, panting. Then he grinned. “But who has the gun now?’ 

She pulled against his grip. He released her suddenly, sending her stumbling backward and falling into the air conditioning unit beneath the window. She slid to the floor, her chest heaving. She touched her bloody lip, pushed the hair from her eyes then pulled herself upright. Her robe hung open exposing her large breasts and dark triangle of hair. 

Deluca adjusted his grip on the gun. “I know how to use one, in case you were wondering. Working for Gallo teaches a man all kinds of things.” He stepped toward Maria. “It could have been different. Jesus! It should have been. This—” He waved his empty hand, dropped it limply. “This isn’t where I’m supposed to end up. Not here. Not like this.”

Maria stood facing him, her back to the window.

Paris edged to the door as Deluca spoke. She reached behind her for the handle and started to push it down, only to have it yanked from her grasp as the door smashed open, pinning her between the wall and the painted wood.

“Freeze! Police!” 

Deluca pulled the trigger.

REILLY followed the winding road up the mountain, thinking that if he just got high enough, and found a spot that was clear enough, well maybe. The cell phone beeped. He reached across the seat for it, squinted at the display.

“What? What’s the beeping for?” He pushed a button and held the phone to his ear. “Hello?” Nothing. 

He pulled off the road onto the shoulder and hit the inside lights. Now he could see it perfectly. The beep was a battery warning, one blip away from dead. Great. He turned it off to save whatever energy was left, hit the light and pulled back onto the road and continued up the mountain.

Berger stirred in his dreams, the bumpy ride turning into an ocean voyage on a sailing ship of pirates. He smiled as his dream-self whistled a jaunty tune and spilled gold coins through his fingers onto the flat belly of a bare-breasted maiden.

Reilly wasn’t so lucky. He turned the bend and found taller trees forming a canopy over the road—a road that seemed to be going back down. He pulled over, got out of the van and tried the phone while pacing across the pavement.

“C’mon. C’mon.” 

The phone blinked. “No Signal.”

“Dammit!” 

He jumped back into the van and gunned it down the road.

White Shoes hadn’t driven a stick shift in almost thirty years and there was definitely something wrong with this one.

“Maledetto!” He jammed the skull-head handle of the stick shift into third and held it there so it wouldn’t slip out again. 

The pickup’s dashboard rattled. The shocks squeaked and the brakes hissed when he felt the need to use them. He hoped the gas gauge wasn’t broken, because the only thing worse than driving this piece of shit up this mountain would be walking alone in the dark with all those freaking animals.

White Shoes was a city boy. His idea of country was the patch of tomatoes in his Papa’s backyard. He was old and tired and a little drunk and the last thing he wanted to do was run around in the dark looking for a crazy redheaded kid and a wacked-out, washed-up dick. He wanted to be home in a comfortable chair with a cold beer, listening to the sounds of his house in a well-lit room. 

He stuck his head out the window, popped the truck into neutral and listened. There it was—the distinctive growl of the van’s engine and the whine of the fan belt he told JR to fix last week. 

“I hear you,” he whispered, and popped the clutch.

Banning drove slower as the road turned to dirt. Hemlock branches scraped the Jag’s roof, brushed against its sides. The curves came more frequently now, and Sailor felt the shoulder strap tug at her with every turn. She was getting a little nauseous, so she closed her eyes. She must have drifted off, because when she opened her eyes, Jeremy and Banning were murmuring and the car had slowed to a crawl. 

Banning parked, turned off the ignition. It was quiet—too quiet. Even the night birds had stopped singing. 

In the backseat, Jeremy looked toward the woods, thought about telling them everything. That Deluca had sent him to kill Berger, and bring Gina back. That Sailor and Banning were as good as dead if they dug any deeper. That they needed to let this go—Berger, Bentley, Deluca—all of it. For that matter, Jeremy could use this opportunity himself. 

A pop each in the back of the head, then hunt down Berger, Reilly and White Shoes. Take them all out of the picture. Because that was what he did. That was who he’d become: a stone-cold killer. Hadn’t he?

He looked at Sailor. 

She smiled, looking brave.

A flash came through the trees, followed by a loud crack.

Instead of telling them anything, Jeremy reached into the duffle bag and pulled out a gun.

He checked the sight, aimed it at Banning. Then he spun it around, offering it handle-first to the startled attorney. “You okay with that?”

Banning swallowed hard, then nodded and took the gun. 

Sailor watched Banning. The moonlight was enough to illuminate his high forehead and the drops of sweat at his temple. He returned her gaze, lifting a corner of his mouth in a half-smile of apology.

Jeremy said, “Turn off the interior light and get out fast.”