Authors: Anthony Izzo
The Dark Ones (11 page)
He had two options: charge out the front door and blast his way out, which would definitely bring the cops to Smith Street, or retreat to the bedroom and opt for climbing out a window. It would be the bedroom. It would also provide a better defensive position, for they couldn’t attack from behind.
On the floor, the guy groaned, and Mike kicked him in the ribs. He grunted again. Mike retreated to the bedroom. He shoved the twin bed around Jasmine’s body and jammed it up against the door, hoping it would at least slow down Hark’s men.
The bedroom had two windows, the one on the right looking over their dirt patch of a yard, and the left one looking over the Hoolihans’ driveway next door. He looked out the right window and saw one of them, tall as a smokestack, rounding the rear of the house. He went to the opposite window and saw a shorter, skinnier one in a leather jacket coming up the Hoolihans’ driveway. Both exits were blocked, and soon they would figure out he was in the bedroom and come knocking at the door.
No sooner did he think that when someone smacked the door. The twin bed screeched on the floor, moved maybe three inches. Another few good hits and the bed would be across the room.
He would take his chances with short and skinny. He went back to the driveway window. The dimness of the room provided him cover from the outside. Another whack at the door.
He reached over and unlatched the window lock. The guy was looking down the driveway, toward the backyard. The death smell in the room grew thick. Mike lifted the window. Now the guy in the driveway turned. He opened his mouth to yell and reached inside his jacket and Mike shot him in the leg, just below the kneecap. He went down howling and holding his leg.
Shit. Didn’t want to opt for gunplay, but it was me or him
, Mike thought. That would draw the Buffalo PD for sure. Maybe he could claim self-defense. And just try and explain having a loaded .45 and no permit.
Shit. Didn’t want to opt for gunplay, but it was me or him
, Mike thought. That would draw the Buffalo PD for sure. Maybe he could claim self-defense. And just try and explain having a loaded .45 and no permit.
He hoisted himself out the window and dropped to the ground. The guy in the leather jacket was now spinning around on the ground like a crazy break-dancer, holding his leg and moaning. Inside, he heard the bedroom door give with a crack.
He’d run for the Hoolihans’ backyard, hop the fence, and cut through St. Stephen’s parking lot. Now the guy on the ground was yelling in a high shriek, “He’s here! The driveway!”
Mike had no stomach for putting another bullet in the man, so he ran down the driveway, hurtling one of the Hoolihans’ kids’ bikes, a blue Huffy. He reached the end of the house. The gated picket fence was in view, and beyond that, St. Stephen’s parking lot and freedom. He’d get away, then figure out how to find Mom.
From the corner of his eye he saw a blur and then the guy slammed into him. He flew sideways. The gun dropped to the ground. He hit the concrete, shoulder stinging, and rolled three times. He thought a small bus had taken a detour just to flatten him.
He looked up to see smokestack standing over him. No wonder he’d been flattened. The big man wore a skintight ribbed turtleneck that hugged his torso, the muscles looking like sculpted ivory with the sweater. No waist, V-shaped, wearing loose black pants and engineer boots.
“Those steroids work wonders,” Mike said and sat up, his shoulder singing with pain.
“Shut the fuck up,” big and ugly said. He stomped on Mike’s toes and for a moment the pain was so bad Mike thought he might swallow his tongue. Mike pulled his foot away, his toes feeling hot and numb. Looking around, he saw the .45 on the ground, about ten feet away. The goon took out a chrome revolver and pointed it at Mike.
Mike put up his hands. “All right, I take back the steroid comment.”
The goon cocked the hammer on the revolver. Mike thought it prudent to shut his mouth.
He looked at the Hoolihans’ rear porch. No one out there, only a silver ashtray on the railing and a Schmidt’s beer can. The lights were dim inside, which meant no help from them. The number of crimes that went unsolved in this neighborhood was a joke. People who watched from their front windows while kids were shot to death would say they didn’t see anything. They didn’t want their houses firebombed or their living rooms sprayed with bullets in reprisal.
Now, the goon looked down, face impassive. Mike began crab walking backward, hoping to reach the gun. The big guy followed, and when he got close enough, Mike flicked up a foot and kicked him in the crotch. The goon winced, giving Mike enough time to grab for the .45. He gripped it, swung around. If he could take big ugly out, he had a chance to get across the church parking lot.
He had the man in his sights. A look of surprise crossed the guy’s face, as if to say this wasn’t supposed to happen. Mike exerted pressure on the trigger. Could he do it again?
Something hard whacked against the side of his head. It felt like someone was pressing thumbtacks into his brain. He dropped the gun and covered his head with his arms, expecting another blow. Instead, he heard a familiar voice say, “Get up. Hark’s waiting.”
He uncovered his head. Standing over him was the monster from Hark’s warehouse, still in a dark suit. He wore dark shoes, a dark shirt, and a dark tie. Keeping the undertaker look going, apparently. He held a leather sap in his hand, and now he tucked it back under his suit coat.
Now the other guy, the one in the turtleneck, limped over and stood next to Hark’s main man. Mike hoped he at least gave the guy sore nuts for a few days. The one he had kicked pulled out a sleek automatic and pointed it at Mike.
“The car’s waiting.”
“Not much for joyrides,” Mike said, but stood up. He could feel the spot where a lump would form on his head. The leather-jacketed thug shoved the gun into his ribs and jabbed. In the driveway, Mike saw two more of Hark’s men with the one he had shot. They had his arms over their shoulders, like football players helping an injured teammate off the field. He heard soft whimpering coming from the guy. That probably didn’t go over well with the other thugs.
They reached the end of the driveway. Two cars, Toyotas from the looks of them, were parked in front of the O’Donnell house. He heard rap music echoing faintly from a house down the street. He hoped to see someone walking the block, or sticking their head out a door, but the street was empty. Hark’s men helped the wounded man into the backseat of the rear car.
The man who had hid in the closet exited the front door. Blood trickled down his head, and he had removed his sport coat and was pressing it against his skull. He, too, got in the rear vehicle.
Mike was led to the front car. One of them opened the rear passenger door and shoved Mike inside. He saw why they had leverage. His mother sat in the backseat, her hands bound by an extension cord. Her skin had gone waxy and white, and a wet rattle came from her mouth as she struggled to breathe. Eyes closed, she rested her head against the window.
“Mom?”
No answer.
“Mom, c’mon, it’s Mike.” He nudged her shoulder. She moaned. Then she lifted her head and opened her eyes. They were wet and bleary and damned if she didn’t look like a reanimated corpse. He hated himself for thinking that, wanted to shoot himself in the guts for it.
“What’d you do, Michael?”
“I’m sorry, Ma.”
“Who are they? Are they Schuler’s friends?”
“I don’t think these guys are anybody’s friends.”
The man from the warehouse climbed into the driver’s seat. He was so big it looked as if he were at the wheel of a clown car. The one in the black turtleneck took the passenger seat.
“If my hands weren’t tied, I’d give you a smack. Who are they?”
“Hark’s people.”
“The warehouse guy? Oh, Michael, tell me you didn’t get caught up with them.”
The driver started the car and they pulled away from the curb.
The guy in the passenger seat, the one Mike had kicked, said, “What’s wrong with her?”
“None of your goddamned business,” Mike said.
“No, really, she sick?”
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t. But she put up a pretty good fight for an old sick broad.”
“I should have shot you on sight,” Mike said.
The guy laughed. “Yeah, you fucked that up, too, didn’t ya?”
Mom leaned her head against the window. She closed her eyes and sighed. “What are you into, Michael? Is it drugs?”
“No drugs.”
“Getting a lecture from his mother, some hard-ass. I thought this guy was good,” Turtleneck said.
“He is, Ed,” said the driver, his expression not changing.
“It took three of you to catch me, and I still almost got away.”
Mom said, “You didn’t answer my question.”
Mike looked out the windshield. They were on South Park now, headed toward the city, passing the low brick structures that made up the Perry Street projects. Outside, at the curbs, were the rectangular garbage containers with
CITY OF BUFFALO
in white on the side. Mike saw a rat scurry between two of the containers. Apparently the garbage containers the city required weren’t very effective.
CITY OF BUFFALO
in white on the side. Mike saw a rat scurry between two of the containers. Apparently the garbage containers the city required weren’t very effective.
“Michael?”
He didn’t want to tell her. He thought just maybe if he did right now, it would push her over the edge, in some crazy way accelerate the cancer and cause her to shrivel and die right before his eyes. His mother was no fool, and she had most likely known. The old Irish of the First Ward didn’t keep secrets, and when they ran into each other at B-Kwik or Tops on Bailey, they would stop in the aisle, carts askew, hands waving and gesturing, sharing whose daughter was pregnant and whose son had reading problems in school, all of it discussed with the fervor of Mideast peace negotiations. “Not drugs. Burglary. This one was arson.”
Please don’t cry, he thought. Just don’t fucking cry, because if you do, I might start.
“I’d hoped for better.”
“This is what you got.”
“I’m going to rest now,” she said.
“Come on.”
“Resting.”
The guy in the passenger seat turned. His turtleneck looked as if it were trying to swallow his head. “Guess she don’t want to talk, huh?”
“Mind your business.”
They pulled up in a small parking lot near the rear of a brick building. A blue steel door was marked with a sign reading
EMPLOYEES ONLY
. There were no other cars in the lot and any hope Mike had of someone spotting them vanished. The second car pulled in behind them and Hark’s men got out. Mike looked out the rear window to see two of the guys helping the one with the gunshot. His skin tone resembled a pale pea soup color. They dragged him past and one of them opened the steel door. The driver of Mike’s vehicle got out and said, “Call Doc Li, and tell him to pack some morphine in his goody bag. Can’t take our man to the hospital with a bullet in him.”
EMPLOYEES ONLY
. There were no other cars in the lot and any hope Mike had of someone spotting them vanished. The second car pulled in behind them and Hark’s men got out. Mike looked out the rear window to see two of the guys helping the one with the gunshot. His skin tone resembled a pale pea soup color. They dragged him past and one of them opened the steel door. The driver of Mike’s vehicle got out and said, “Call Doc Li, and tell him to pack some morphine in his goody bag. Can’t take our man to the hospital with a bullet in him.”
Hark’s men flung the doors open. One grabbed Mike by the arm and for a brief moment he considered smacking the guy, but even if he overpowered the man, they still had Mom, and he couldn’t very well wrestle her away from the other giant. They shoved him along, his mom behind him, and the one called Ed opened the door. Inside, a hallway filled with gray light caused Mike to squint, trying to adjust to the semidarkness. At the end of the hall he saw a pool table, and beyond it a bar that took up the center of the room. Somehow he didn’t think his hosts brought him here to buy a round of martinis. Another door, this one a six panel, was to the right. Turtleneck Ed opened it and this time Mike was forced downstairs, someone jabbing a gun barrel hard into his back. He reached the bottom of the stairs and wound up in a room with a cracked concrete floor. Cases of beer had been stacked against the wall, brands ranging from Amstel to Tecate. On the opposite wall, another door. Someone flicked on fluorescent lights, and they hummed to life.
He waited for his mother to come down, but instead Ed lumbered down the stairs. He stopped on the bottom step, folded his arms.
“Where is she?”
“Your mom’s sick, right?”
“Beyond sick.”
“How beyond?”
“She has a couple months, at most.”
“We’re putting her in Mr. Hark’s private office. She needs rest.”
“What is this place?”
The man gave him a hard stare, one that indicated he thought Mike to be an idiot. “One of Mr. Hark’s establishments.”
Heavy thuds came from the stairs. The one in the black suit came down, the other guy stepping out of his way. He leaned on a stack of beer cases. “Mr. Hark will be here tomorrow. He told me not to hurt you, that he’ll deal with it. He doesn’t like disappointments.”
Turtleneck Ed went back upstairs.
“That’s the impression I’m getting,” Mike said.
“You’ve caused him two messes tonight. He’s coming down to meet with you personally.”
“I’m sure the pleasure will be all his.”
The dark-suited man went to the door and jiggling the knob said, “Let me show you something.”
He opened the door, entered the darkened room, and a moment later someone stumbled out and flopped onto the concrete floor. The man looked up. One eye was black and swollen shut, the nose a mashed tomato. The front of his shirt was torn as if by animals, and sticky blood stained the shirt.
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