The Devil's Redhead (14 page)

“‘Cooze.' ‘Cooze,' it's a fucking word.”

“Hey, Frank,” the other brother said, stepping between them. He was chafing his arms. “Frank-o buddy, he didn't mean anything, okay? Let's hit it.”

Frank stood his ground. “That's just what you need, Mooch,” he shouted. He felt strangely infuriated at the boy's helpless stupidity. “Some joint time. Let some buck nigger put some flavor in his behavior. You can chalk his stick.”

“Frank,” Chewy said again, reaching out for Frank's arm. “Let it go. All right? He didn't mean anything.”

Frank tore his cap off, flung it to the ground then kicked it for good measure. Standing there stock-still for a moment, he realized it had all been decided. It was out of his hands. He picked up his hat, swatted it against his leg and fit it back on top of his head.

“Get in the truck,” he said.

With the twins in back he put the four-by-four in gear again and headed up Pacheco Creek, south to the highway. There he turned east, toward Willow Pass where they'd cross the Diablo foothills. As he drove, Frank checked in back, to make sure the twins were occupied, then he withdrew the Ruger from his waistband and the clip from his pocket, stowing both in the glove compartment. After thinking it over he removed the eight ball of cocaine from his shirt pocket and threw it in with the gun.

They followed Marsh Creek through the arroyos into pasture lowlands, heading toward the Delta tule marshes. The brothers rented a split-level house near Sand Mound Slough. The house sat alone on a dirt road rimmed with cattails. Grime hazed the windows. An antenna clamped to the chimney hung loose, shorn free by the wind.

Frank pulled into the garage. After securing the door behind the truck, the twins came front. Frank opened the glove compartment, removed the eight ball, and waggled it at eye level. “I'd say we deserve ourselves a little victory ball.”

Mooch eyed the bundle with fond surprise. “Well, hey,” he said.

“Check out what the wets left behind.” Frank pulled out the 9 mm and its clip and held them out in his palm.

Chewy eyed the weapon with instant dread. “I knew it, I fucking knew it,” he said. “You're a damn fool, Frank, walking unpacked into a trade with those fuckers.”

“I walk in packed,” Frank said, “something goes haywire, they toss me and find a gun? Here, take this.”

He handed the Ruger to Chewy. Chewy accepted it in both palms and held it there, like it was sleeping. Like it might wake up. Frank took the clip away from him, emptied it of rounds, then handed it back. He pocketed the bullets, which were hollow-points. “Feel better now?” he asked.

“Some,” Chewy admitted.

Frank brandished the eight ball again. “We gonna hoot the toot or think deep thoughts here?”

“What about the count?”

Frank shrugged. “Money going somewhere?”

The brothers looked at one another. Trick question.

“Thought not,” Frank said. “Let's get hammered. I hate counting. Thankless goddamn chore.”

Inside the house, every surface wore a glaze of dust. Discarded socks and magazines lay scattered under chairs, behind curtains.

“Bring the party,” Mooch called back over his shoulder as he climbed the stairs.

Abatangelo drove back and forth outside the Akers property twice before deciding he had the right place. It wasn't till he turned off the road that he spotted a pickup truck with a man at the wheel, parked beyond a stone wall about twenty yards in.

The pickup's headlights came on and the truck lurched out, blocking the way amid a cloud of dust and exhaust. The driver yammered into a wireless phone over the throb of the truck engine, squinting out into the glare from Abatangelo's headlights. He was little more than a kid, not much older than the boys who'd provided directions out here, and whoever he was talking to was giving him a hard time. The conversation went from heated to pitched and ended in a shout before the kid slammed down the phone, killed the truck motor, threw open the door and marched forward, rocks crunching beneath his boots. He carried a Maglite with him, flicking the beam on as he came to the driver's side window of the car. He pointed it inside, scouring the front seat first. Then he raised the beam into Abatangelo's face.

“Whoa, bub, the eyes, how about it.”

The kid stepped back and lowered the light. He was thin, edgy. Acne rippled across his cheeks. He wore a Raiders cap, brim pointed backwards. It was pulled down low on his head like he was defying someone to pull it off.

“You're the one kept driving back and forth out here 'bout an hour ago,” the kid said. A nasal twang. “Figured you'd be back.”

“I'm not from out here,” Abatangelo said. “Easy to get lost.”

“What the hell you doing on my property?”

The statement had a defensive ring. This is no more your property, Abatangelo thought, than it is mine. But, given the bit with the phone, he presumed the owner would be out momentarily. Abatangelo patted the six-pack beside him. He'd passed a roadhouse on the Delta Highway just outside Oakley, the name came to him as he traded stares with the boy.

“I'm looking for a buddy of mine. Met him at The Wagon Wheel a few nights back. Told me if I had the inclination I ought to come on out, lift a few brews.”

“This friend, he got a name?”

Abatangelo nodded. “Know somebody who doesn't?”

In the distance another truck approached, turning a bend and spewing gravel as it lurched up the side road toward them. The kid stepped back from the car, pointed the Maglite toward the oncoming truck and flashed it on and off three times. Abatangelo chuckled. All we need now, he thought, is a tree house and a secret sign. His palms were damp. A confrontation was on the way, an ugly one perhaps, and though he'd readied himself mentally his body rebelled. Sensing the need for a little stage business, he reached to the six-pack beside him and uncapped one of the beers. He'd taken three sips by the time his welcoming committee disembarked from the truck.

There were two of them, they carried shotguns and lumbered toward the car. Something in the way they ignored the pimply kid suggested they were brothers.

You're a pleasant guy, he told himself. You're the mildest man on the planet.

The two newcomers split up as they reached the car. One took the passenger side, lifting the barrel of his shotgun so it pointed directly at Abatangelo and pumping a round into the chamber as he took aim. The other one came around to the driver's side. He had longish graying hair combed straight back, a sweater with holes in it. He seemed to be the oldest.

“You're on private property,” he said.

“Hey,” Abatangelo said. “I was invited.”

“No one here invited you.”

“Wrong. Sorry, I don't mean to differ, but wrong. I got explicit directions.” He gestured toward the one pointing his rifle. Middle child, he thought. No surprise he'd be the one most attached to his weapon. “Could you tell Sergeant York over there to chill. I'm not here to hassle anybody.”

“Too late for that,” the oldest said, and spat. “We're already hassled.”

“Not by me.”

“He says he's got a friend,” the kid interjected from behind. He'd been chewing his thumbnail. “Says they met at The Wagon Wheel.”

“You haven't got any friends here,” the oldest one said, checking the inside of the car.

“That's not my understanding,” Abatangelo said. He gestured to the one training his shotgun on him. “Come on, lighten up. What's with you guys?”

“We've had poachers out here, if it's any of your business. Squatters. Thieves.”

“Aha,” Abatangelo said. That'd be the story if the cops found his body out here. “Even so. All this—”

“You don't like it, turn around.”

Abatangelo took a sip from his beer. In the distance ahead, about a half mile away, he could see the glow of houselights crowning the first hill. He wondered if Shel was there.

“Like the young one said, I'm here to meet a friend.”

“Give me his name.”

Abatangelo considered the matter. He was getting nowhere. Time to risk a little. Calling to mind the name Shel had mentioned in her letter, he said, “Hank,” and took another sip of beer.

“You mean Frank,” the kid said.

Bingo.

“Do I?” Abatangelo offered an addled smile. “It was a wild night. Good thing I jotted the directions down or I would've fucked them up, too.”

The oldest one reached for the door handle, opened the door and said, “That's it. Out.”

“Hey—”

“Get your ass out of the car,” he shouted. He raised his own gun now, a reckless fury in his eyes.

Abatangelo lifted his hands away from his body. “Careful, friend.” He eased out from behind the wheel, set his feet onto the gravel, still showing his hands. “Let's not overreact.”

The oldest, using the gun for a prod, forced Abatangelo to his knees, hands spread out to each side against the car. The shotgun barrel pressed against his neck. The middle child came around, muttering, “Sergeant York, huh? Fucking Sergeant York?” In the background, the youngest protested, saying, “Goddamn, Roy, no need to make a federal case. Let him get back in the car, get the fuck outta here.”

“Shut up,” the one called Roy said. Reaching inside the car, he removed the keys from the ignition, tossed them to the middle brother and said, “Check the car, Lyle.” Turning back to Abatangelo, he pressed the shotgun barrel harder into his neck. “Came out to pick up your stuff, right?”

“Listen,” Abatangelo began.

“The stuff old Frankie went and stole for you tonight.”

Abatangelo closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the side of the car. Good God, he thought. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

The middle brother, the one called Lyle, was rifling the car. Scouring the glove compartment, he found only road maps, a tire pressure gauge, an old magnetized statue of St. Christopher and the registration. He removed the registration from its envelope, puzzled over it briefly, and called out, “Car belongs to a guy named …” He stared at the small piece of paper as though it were written in code.

“Dominic Napolitano,” Abatangelo said.

“That you?” Roy asked.

“No. A friend. Car's borrowed.”

Roy gestured for Lyle to go on searching. Lyle tucked the registration in his pocket then went around back to check the trunk, lifting the spare to peer beneath it and rummaging through a box of rags.

“Nothing,” he shouted, slamming the trunk closed.

He came around front again. As Roy eased back with the gun, Lyle rifled Abatangelo's pockets and came up with nothing but what was left of his kickout money. He counted it, showed it to Roy, then stuffed it in his pocket with the registration.

“Chump change,” Abatangelo said over his shoulder, grateful to have the gun barrel off his neck. “If I'm here to pick up something worth making this kind of noise over, how come all I'm carrying is chump change?”

“I can name a dozen reasons,” Roy said. “How come no ID? How come no wallet, even?”

Abatangelo made a point to meet Roy's eye. It was clear now he'd be the one to decide things. “I tell you the truth,” Abatangelo said, “you'll just jump to conclusions.”

“Will I now.”

“Look, I don't know what Frank may have been up to, that's the truth. I met him once, that's it, at the Wagon Wheel. We shot the breeze.”

“Horseshit,” Lyle said.

Roy said, “About what?”

“About being in the joint.” Abatangelo turned a little further. “I'm fresh out. That's why I don't have ID.”

Roy thought it over a moment. “Frank offer you a job?”

“Not in so many words.”

“He's lying,” Lyle said.

Addressing Roy, Abatangelo said, “You're so bent about thievery, tell your brother to give me back my money.”

“Fat chance, liar,” Lyle said.

“How come you know he's my brother?” Roy said.

“Oh, come on.”

“You're just some stranger, met Frank at the goddamn Wagon Wheel, how come you know shit about me or anybody else standing here?”

“A mentally retarded rock could peg you three for brothers,” Abatangelo said. “I'm tired of being on my knees. I'm standing up.”

“You stay put.” It was Lyle, shouting. “Come on, Roy, snap to. Fuck this fool. Him and his goddamn mouth.”

Abatangelo turned his head around to where he could meet Roy's eye. “I'm standing up,” he said again, and began to rise.

“Fuck you will,” Lyle said, and he charged forward.

Roy cut him off. “We got a problem here, Lyle?”

“What the fuck's gone wrong with you?”

Lyle shoved Roy, Roy shoved back, neither blow enough to do anything but get the other brother's attention. Maybe that was why the younger one didn't step in. He just stood there, blank-eyed, no stake in the winner. Lyle, sensing he was being stared at, looked away from Roy just long enough to say, “You see something funny, Snuff?”