The Barbed-Wire Kiss (34 page)

“If you have any idea where Dunleavy is,” Harry said, “this is the time to tell me.”

“What, now you’re gonna protect me?”

“You blew your shot at the big time, Eddie. You’re out of your league. You always were.”

“So I’m not a tough guy like you, that it? I don’t go around sticking guns in people’s faces, fucking their wives?”

“I don’t have people killed, Eddie. I don’t con them into selling drugs for me and then have them executed.”

“I never conned anybody into anything. Anyone I ever did business with, he came to me, not the other way around.”

“What about Wiley?”

“What about him?”

“You sent Dunleavy and the others to see him.”

“He was running out on me. He had something that didn’t belong to him.”

“Turns out he didn’t.”

Fallon said nothing.

“You weren’t a very good boss, Eddie. He looked up to you. He trusted you. You owed him more than that.”

“Sometimes things don’t go the way you’d like them to.”

“Is that what happened at my house?”

Fallon tapped the cigarette on the table. He looked away, then back.

“You think I’m calling the shots now?” he said. “Dunleavy’s out of control.”

“So it’s just tough luck, then, isn’t it? Tough luck for everybody. Tough luck for Jimmy Cortez and his cousin. Tough luck for Wiley. Tough luck for Bobby. Now it’s tough luck for you.”

Fallon put the cigarette in his mouth, picked up his lighter from the table.

“I’ve got nothing else to say to you,” he said. “If you came here to shoot me, then do it. If not, then get the fuck out.” The lighter flared.

Harry stood up.

“You’re right,” he said. “I’m not like you.”

He slid out of the booth, engaged the safety, and tucked the Glock into his belt.

“I’m glad I’m not. You’re done. You’re walking around dead and you don’t even know it.”

“Get out.”

“You’re over. Lie down and die.”

Harry turned his back on him, started toward the door.

“You want to know who got your friend killed?” Fallon called after him. “Look in the mirror.”

He tore the yellow crime scene tape off his porch, let the wind carry it across the yard.

When he opened the door, paper triangles fled across the ruined floor. The bloody chair still sat in the center of the room.

In the kitchen, the answering machine blinked redly at him. He unlocked and opened the back door. The blinds above the sink began to rattle like kazoos.

The message from Ray was an hour old. He called the office number and the receptionist put him through immediately.

“Been trying to reach you all day,” Ray said. “I was hoping you’d call in, check your messages. Where are you?”

“Home for now.”

“Edda called me about an hour and a half ago. She took a message for you at the house. From a woman. She didn’t leave her name, but she said you’d know her from the beach. That make sense?”

“What did she say?”

“Just one word: ‘Tonight.’ She said you’d know what it meant.”

He looked at his watch. It was almost five.

“All this mean anything to you?” Ray asked.

“Yes, it does. That’s all she said?”

“That was it. Is there something going on I should know about? Something you need help with?”

“No,” Harry said. “I don’t think so. Not this time.”

He took out the phone book and began calling airlines. There were only two flights from Newark to Mexico City that night: a TWA at six forty-five, an American at ten-fifty, changing in Atlanta. Fallon might use Kennedy, or even LaGuardia, but Newark would be closest, easiest.

He called American back, got a different operator.

“I’m calling to confirm a flight tonight?”

“Your name, sir?”

“Fallon.” He spelled it.

“Flight number?”

He gave it to her.

There was a pause, the tapping of computer keys.

“Yes, sir, I have you confirmed on American Flight 1062, leaving Newark tonight at ten-fifty, arriving in Atlanta at one-twenty and then continuing on to Mexico City, with an arrival time of four-thirty a.m. Two passengers traveling first class. Do you need to make a change?”

“No, that’s fine, thank you.”

He changed clothes, put on jeans and boots, the plan already taking shape in his mind.

It took him ten minutes to find the pry bar in the woods. He levered off the well cap, reached in. The knapsack was still there. He pulled it out, set it beside him. The blood on it had dried to a stiff black stain.

He took the Star 9 from his sling, released the safety. Holding the grip in his left hand, he worked the slide with his right to chamber a shell. Then he changed hands, pointed the gun into the well, turned his head away and fired three times, flat cracks like sticks breaking. He could hear the thump of bullets hitting dirt. Cordite smoke drifted past him.

He put the safety on, then pushed the well cap back into place. When he was done, he looked at his watch. Six o’clock. Time to move.

He parked beneath the same stand of trees, facing Fallon’s house, watched figures move back and forth behind lighted windows. The air was thick with humidity. He had to wipe a sleeve across the inside of the windshield every ten minutes to clear it.

At seven-fifteen, a limousine came slowly up the street, as if the driver were reading house numbers. It passed the Saturn, turned into Fallon’s driveway.

He wiped the windshield again. The driver got out, went to the front door. After a few moments, it opened a crack and he spoke to someone inside. The door swung wider and he went in.

Harry pulled the knapsack from beneath the passenger seat, unzipped it, and checked the package inside. He had duct-taped the bags of heroin into a tight bundle smaller than a pound of sugar. Taped in the middle was the loaded Star 9, wiped clean of prints.

The driver came back out, carrying a pair of suitcases. He set them down beside the limo, unlocked the trunk, raised the lid. He stowed the bags inside, moved them around, then went back in the house.

Lights began to go off inside. The driver came back out with two more bags, put them in the trunk, and slammed the lid. He opened the back door, waited there, leaning against the fender.

Fallon and Cristina came out of the house together. She wore the leather jacket, a white blouse, jeans. He had her right elbow in one hand, a leather overnight bag in the other. She was moving slowly, as if half asleep. He led her to the open door of the limo and she seemed to hesitate for a moment until he put a hand on her shoulder to guide her in. She slid inside and he followed, bag in hand. The driver shut the door and got behind the wheel.

The limo backed out of the driveway, thumped into the street, brake lights flaring. It stopped at the intersection, signaled to turn left.

Harry started the engine. He pushed the knapsack back under the seat, pulled away from the curb, lights off. After the limo turned, he waited a moment, then rolled through the stop sign after it.

There were few cars on the Turnpike, and he kept the limo in sight easily. When it took the off-ramp to the airport, he stayed about four car lengths behind, working gas and brake to keep the distance as they navigated the cloverleafs that led to the terminal area. The limo slowed outside Terminal A, where taxis and cars were lined up at the curb, loading and unloading. The driver double-parked, put on his hazards. Harry cruised past, swung into the entrance for the hourly lot beneath the terminal. He got his ticket from the machine, found an empty spot near a concrete post, backed in, and shut off the engine.

He took out the knapsack, unzipped it, and removed the bundle. It fit inside his sling without showing. He got his sunglasses from the glove box, put them on, and got out of the car. He opened the trunk, took out the black windbreaker, and shrugged it on, the left side draped to hide his cast.

He rode the escalator up to the departure level, watching the crowd. A hundred yards away, he saw Fallon and Cristina come into the terminal, a skycap wheeling their suitcases ahead of them, Fallon still carrying the overnight bag. Cristina stopped short, looked around, and Fallon took her arm, tugged.

Harry looked at the arrival and departure screen on the wall above him. The ten-fifty flight to Mexico City—Gate 33—had been delayed by a half hour. When he looked back, Fallon and Cristina were at the American counter, about ten people already ahead of them in line.

Harry went down the short flight of steps to the gate area. Here the terminal branched off into three wide corridors, the entrance to each blocked by a security checkpoint. Beige-jacketed guards checked tickets, then waved people into queues for the metal detectors and X-ray machines. Two PA cops hovered nearby.

He moved as far away from the checkpoints as he could, his back against the wall. After a few minutes, he saw Fallon and Cristina ride the escalator down to the gate area. There were about a dozen people ahead of them, waiting to be processed.

Fallon glanced at his watch, then drew Cristina away from the line. He said something to her and she nodded, looked away, as if distancing herself from what was happening.

Fallon handed her the overnight bag, tucked tickets into his inside jacket pocket. Then he headed toward the rest rooms at the far end of the gate area.

Harry was already moving, walking slowly toward her. She stood in the center of the gate area, bag in hand, looking lost. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fallon push open the men’s room door and go inside. Cristina turned.

“It’s me,” he said and caught her arm, still moving.

“What are you—”

He squeezed the inside of her elbow, kept her in motion, guiding her across the floor toward the ladies’ room.

“What are you doing?” she said. “He’ll be back in a second, he’s—”

They reached the ladies’ room door and he pushed it open, took them through. Water glistened on the freshly mopped floor, a triangular plastic sign warning of the danger in English and Spanish. Only two of the stalls were occupied. He led her into an empty one, squeezed in behind her, and shut the door, latched it.

“Harry, what are you doing here?” She looked at the cast. “What happened to—”

He pulled her close, kissed her. She let the bag drop, and he held her tight with his right arm, his face buried in her hair.

“It’s okay,” he said.

When he loosened his grip, she pulled back to look at him. He took the bag from her, set it on the toilet, unzipped it.

“I didn’t think you got my message,” she said. “I didn’t think there was any way you’d know in time.”

He rummaged through folded clothes until he found a leather shaving kit, took it out. Not big enough.

“What are you doing?”

He reached in again, came out with a polo sweater. Better. He wrapped the sweater around the shaving kit, wedged them behind the toilet.

“He’ll be looking for me,” she said.

He took the taped bundle from his sling, pushed it down into the bag, moved clothes around to cover it.

“Tell him you had to go to the bathroom,” he said. “You couldn’t wait.”

He zipped the bag back up, hefted it. It was about the same weight and shape it had been.

“What was that?”

“Something that belongs to your husband. I’m returning it.”

He gave her the bag.

“Give it back to him as soon as you walk out of here. If he asks you to carry it, don’t. Drop it if you have to, but don’t go through the checkpoint with it. Do you understand?”

“What is it? Why do …”

“Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Hang back when you get in line. Let some people get between you and him if possible. Stall any way you can.”

“Where will you be?”

“Right behind you. Waiting.”

She kissed him quickly again, looked into his face.

“I knew you’d come,” she said.

“He’ll be wondering where you are. Remember what I said.”

He unlatched the stall door and she went out. He pulled the door shut again and waited, counting a full minute. When he left the stall, a middle-aged woman was at the sinks. She frowned at him.

“Sorry,” he said. “Men’s room was full.”

He went to the door and looked out. Fallon and Cristina were in line at the checkpoint, a half dozen people ahead of them. He was carrying the bag.

Harry walked away from the bathrooms toward the far wall. The line moved slowly. Fallon had a hand in the small of Cristina’s back and eased her forward every time someone passed through the metal detector.

Fallon showed his tickets to the guard, who looked through them, then waved him forward. He moved up to join a queue of four at the metal detector.

Cristina eased away from the line, bent one knee and began to tug at her shoe.

Fallon didn’t notice at first. Two people had moved into line behind him before he turned and saw her. He said something Harry couldn’t make out, gestured to her. Now there was no one ahead of him in line. The heavy black woman manning the metal detector waved him up. A teenage girl behind him moved around and past him.

The PA cops were starting to take notice now. Behind Fallon was a Hispanic family with three small children. They flowed around him on both sides.

“Sir,” the female guard said, loud enough for Harry to hear, “you’re holding up the line.”

“Come on,” Fallon called to Cristina, irritation in his voice. She ignored him, moved over to the wall and calmly took off her shoe, shook it as if to dislodge something.

“Sir, there are people waiting. Step through, please.”

Fallon cursed, moved up. He put his bag on the conveyor belt, walked through the metal detector, turned again on the other side.

The belt came to a juddering halt. Harry saw the red light glow on the machine.

Fallon was looking back at Cristina, unaware of what was going on around him. The man at the X-ray screen gestured toward the black woman. She stepped around to look over his shoulder. The ticket checker joined them. The line behind Fallon grew.

The black woman thumbed up her lapel and spoke into a microphone pinned there. The ticket checker motioned for the rest of the line to stand back. The PA cops were already moving in.