The Devil's Redhead (15 page)

Abatangelo reached his feet and brushed the knees to his suit pants. Roy, Lyle, and, of all things, Snuff. Brothers, oh yeah.

“This is Frank's handoff,” Lyle shouted at Roy. “Hell's bells, you're the one who brought it up.”

“If I was a handoff,” Abatangelo interjected, sitting down behind the wheel, facing out, “I'd make Frank bring his stuff to me, wouldn't I? If he made me come out here looking for it, I'd come with a gun. Think about it, thief.”

Lyle took a lunge toward Abatangelo. “I've about had it with you.”

“Knock it off,” Roy shouted, collaring Lyle and throwing him back. They glared at each other, weapons ready. The young one, Snuff, remained frozen to the spot, looking utterly lost.

“You want a beer?” Abatangelo asked.

Snuff didn't answer, but he did shoot back a look that said, Don't joke. Shortly, whatever was meant to pass between the older brothers ended. Roy made a gimme gesture, Lyle handed him Abatangelo's car keys, then Roy turned back to Abatangelo and said, “Get the fuck off my property. I see you again out here, there won't be time to talk me out of it.”

“I want my money back,” Abatangelo said. He nodded toward Lyle. “And the registration. Admit it, I haven't done anything to you.”

“You want your money,” Lyle said, “get up off your ass and claim it.”

“Put the gun down,” Abatangelo said, “make it a fair fight, I'll claim a lot more than my money. Right here. Your brothers can watch.”

This brought a smile to Roy's face, as though he could just picture it. Even so, he turned to Abatangelo and said, “I told you, leave. Don't push your luck.”

Abatangelo looked at each of the brothers in turn and realized it was his last chance. He glanced up the gravel road again, at the glowing crest of the first hill, and briefly considered some ploy to get back there, use the phone, the can, anything, just to see if she was really there. Lyle brought him around by banging on the car hood with the stock of his shotgun.

Abatangelo closed the car door and turned the ignition over. As he did he felt his hand trembling. He put the car in gear and the two older ones started in on the young one, Snuff, like it was all his fault. Abatangelo backed out toward the road feeling sorry for the kid.

Ten minutes later he was back at the market named
CHEAPER
, sitting in his car, staring at nothing. He asked himself, as the Baltimore Catechism of his Catholic boyhood had asked him at the end of each chapter:
What have we learned from this lesson?

Shel might as well be on the moon, he thought, that's what we've learned. What were the words in her letter, Got a whole new life. Things are complicated.

Got that right.

Her old man—Frankie, as they called him—he'd fucked up major from the sounds of it. And if there was any spine to Roy Akers's ranting, old Frankie was in for an ordeal the likes of which Abatangelo wouldn't mind knowing about, truth be told. He doubted it'd stop at Frank, though. The Akers clan didn't seem the type to discriminate too subtly when it came to revenge. Frank's friends were their enemies. He had to assume that meant Shel, too.

You should have stayed, he thought. Gotten her out. Yeah, sure—how, exactly? Figure it out on the fly, just go, do it. Turn around. Now. No. Go back, you just get yourself killed. Get her killed, too. For what? You've been gone ten years. Admit it, you haven't got the faintest idea what's going on.

He put the car in gear and drove, not sure where he was headed and doubtful he much cared. He reached the Delta Highway but did not get on, continuing instead toward the seedier neighborhoods rimming downtown.

The storm that had been approaching from the west finally arrived, dropping a thick and steady mist over everything. Ghosts of steam rose through sewer gratings. Inside an all-night Laundromat, an old man folded his clothing. Beyond the lobby window of a cheap hotel, an old woman sat alone, illumined by the jittery light of an ancient TV. That's you and Shel, he thought. Years from now. Old, forgotten. Apart.

He turned blindly onto a cross-street and found the sidewalk dotted with working girls. The sight made him wish he'd brought his camera along. The women manned the doorways of dark buildings, standing out of the rain, peering out from the shadows like the undead. Gotta make sure the pump still pumps, he thought drearily, remembering the cabby's words from that morning outside the Tucson airport. Fuck her till she cries. The women here looked like they were well beyond crying. One Latina in a raincoat leaned against the wall of an SRO hotel, standing there barefoot, singing, pulling at her hair, staring into her empty pumps as they filled with rain. Beside her, a sign posted on the hotel's door read:

It is UNLAWFUL

for Anyone to Sell, Use, or Possess

any Controlled Substances

NARCOTICS

Except as Otherwise Provided by Law

Abatangelo drove on. Just beyond the streetwalkers lay a strip of seedy bars: The Spirit Club, Earth Angel, Cinnabar, The New Déjà Vu. Above an empty lot, a spotlit billboard read:
CALIFORNIA LOTTO
:
YOU
'
RE ONLY SIX NUMBERS AWAY
.

CHAPTER

8

As the twins sat side by side on a sagging couch, passing the pipe back and forth, Frank kept reminding himself: You're almost there. He pictured Shel in the guest room by herself, moody, smoking, staring out the window at the sodden pasture. No more of that, he thought. She's gonna be standing on a beach in Baja, walking along the surf, wind in that long red hair. The money's downstairs, stay calm, do it right—you and your shiny white nurse can put a world of distance between you and Felix Randall's redneck mafia. Get gone, vanish, start over. Be happy. He liked the sound of that. Happy.

“Yo, Frank,” Mooch said. “Bring the fire.”

Snapping to, Frank held a flaming rum-soaked cotton ball in a set of tongs beneath the bowl as first Mooch then Chewy drew deep and long from the pipe. Chewy had set the Ruger on the floor. From time to time he stared at it, puzzled, rubbing his knees. Frank picked it up and ran his finger down the slide chamfer. “What's to be scared of, Chew?”

From his pocket he withdrew the hollow-points and fitted them one by one into the magazine's viewing port. He pulled back the breech to load a round into the firing chamber, put the safety on, then removed the magazine and added an extra round. He shoved the clip home, released the safety and held the gun out for Chewy to take.

“It's not alive,” Frank said. “It only does what you want it to do.”

“I don't want it to do anything,” Chewy said.

Frank tucked it in his waistband and pulled his shirttail over it. “Then we'll keep it out of sight. Feel better?”

“Yeah,” Chewy said. “Sure.”

Mooch eyed the bottle of petroleum ether on the bedstand, then turned his stare toward his arm, running his fingers over the skin. Chewy elbowed him.

“Stop it.”

“What?”

Chewy sighed. His face darkened into a frown, only to soften a moment later. His eyes warmed. Frank inferred from this that the kid had lost track of what he was thinking.

“Can we get more of this?” Chewy asked eventually.

Frank shrugged. “Sure. Maybe. I can find out,” he said, improvising. He felt angry, for reasons he couldn't quite place. Looking around the room, he took comfort in the fact it wasn't pale blue. Robin's egg blue, he remembered, thinking of the tool wagon, the suggestion of children's things the color called to mind. Then despite himself, the other memory—deeper, sadder, more horrible—it started moving. Sliding along the floor of his mind, it dragged after it a slag of cold blood. The monster was coming out now. The monster with a boy's face, it was here. Again.

Mooch looked up wearily from his arm, looking ready to cry. He put his hands to his temples and squeezed.

“Goddamn,” he said quietly.

“This is dangerous,” Chewy agreed.

“What's dangerous?” Frank asked, snapping to.

“Too much candy in the house,” Chewy said, staring at what remained of the eight ball on the bedstand.

“You gotta know how to handle your drugs,” Mooch agreed. He'd begun fingering his arm again.

Frank nodded toward the pipe. “Another go?” He wanted something to do with his hands, something else to think about. His heart was pumping like mad but his skin felt clammy. He dampened another cotton ball in rum and gripped it with the tongs, lit it with his cigarette lighter and held it out. Chewy put his lips to the pipe stem and inhaled heavily, closing his eyes.

“How's Shel doin'?” Mooch asked.

Frank froze. Kill him, a voice said. No, hey, don't. He waved the tongs until the cotton ball went out.

“She's hit middle age,” he said finally. “She's depressed.”

In unison the twins nodded their comprehension.

“Hope I look that good,” Mooch said. He looked up from his arm. “I don't mean, you know, look good, like … I'm not out to bone her or nothing. Not that I wouldn't, I mean, she's a fox, Frank, an ace old lady, no fooling, but …” He sighed from the effort of getting his thoughts in order.

“State your business, Mooch,” Frank said.

“He didn't mean anything, Frank,” Chewy said. “Don't get mad, all right?” Trying to move things along, he added, “Can we get more of this?”

Frank turned his attention from the one to the other. He was sweating. “Keep the rest,” he said. “You can do me back.”

Chewy looked at Frank as though trying to discern him across a distance. “Sure,” he said. “Thank you.”

“I remember,” Mooch murmured, scrunching his face, “the first time I met Shel. Up at the house. She's got a killer smile. I mean, a nice smile.” He waved his hands, to dispel a confusion. “Kinda smile that makes you feel wanted. Wanted as in ‘liked,' I mean. Not wanted as in ‘by the FBI.'” He squeezed his temples again, to unscramble his thought pattern, then sighed. “You got a first-rate old lady, Frank.”

Chewy elbowed his brother again and whispered, “Shut … up.”

Frank said, “Yeah. Almost perfect.”

“Perfect,” Mooch repeated. “Dead on.”

Chewy licked his lips and said for the third time, “We'll probably want to buy some more of this.” It came out very loud.

Mooch stood up, wavering on his feet. “I gotta pee.”

He shuffled from the room like a ghost. It's no longer in your hands, Frank thought, remembering his flash of insight at the marina. What happens, happens. Do it right. Frank turned to Chewy. Something must have shown in his eyes. As soon as Chewy looked up, he said, “Don't be mad. Okay?”

“Who says I'm mad?”

Chewy chuckled miserably and gestured as though to say, Get real.

Frank nodded toward the stereo. “How about some tunes?”

“Don't be mad.”

“Stop saying that.”

Frank got up and went to the cassette rack, checking for anything loud. Finding a tape by a group called Stick, he slipped it in and jacked the volume on a tune called “No Groovy.” A spoon in a water glass rattled clear across the room.

Chewy shouted, “Hey …”

Frank drew the Ruger from his waistband, bracing his right hand with his left. He shot three quick rounds. Chewy lunged back into the couch, legs twisting up. He got fish-mouthed, sucking for air. His chest convulsed. The gun turned warm in Frank's hands, which were shaking. He expected more blood.

Mooch hit the doorway yelling, “What the …”

Frank pivoted, charging at him. The next four rounds in the clip caught the boy point-blank. Mooch spun back trying to grip the door frame, hit the wall, then slid down. Frank noticed there was more blood this time.

He turned down the stereo. The gun was hot, he set it on the floor to cool. Don't be mad, he thought. I didn't mean anything.

Chewy's body stopped twitching. To force back his vomit, Frank held his breath, held it till his head ached. It's not like I had a choice, he thought. Out of my hands.

The next thing he knew he lay curled in a ball on the living room floor. His skin was cold with sweat. How much time had passed? It was still dark outside. He looked up at the furniture with something like envy. It sat there in the room so peacefully.

A nameless pressure lifted him to his feet and guided him back upstairs where, in a state of abstracted terror, he looked at what he'd done. This is not the beach at Baja, he thought.

Move, a voice said. Finish it.

Inspired by an impulse he'd not foreseen, he dug a pair of socks out of a drawer and put one on each hand. He went around wiping everything, even the door downstairs, the banister, then went back to the bedroom and trashed it. Make it look like a burn, he told himself, an inner voice he barely recognized as his own. Do it right.

Look for money.

The twins weren't all that clever. They kept their stash in a wad, stuffed inside a throw pillow. Thirteen hundred and change.
Finish it.
He went through the rest of the house, throwing down every picture, dumping out baskets, checking the flour tins, cereal boxes, the bread hamper. He was light-headed and crying. In a pickle jar he found another grand wrapped inside a condom. He broke the jar on the floor, pocketed the money and left the fridge door open. He found scattered bills in their wallets, a few more in a magazine, an envelope, a hatband. It has to be thorough, he realized, to be convincing. He found two quarter-gram bindles stashed in an empty cassette case; he dusted the bodies with the powder. Make it look like honest-to-God revenge, he thought.

Too much candy in the house.

He picked up the gun, put it away, and collected all seven spent shell casings, reaching far beneath the couch to claim the last. Chewy's body lay there, face to the ceiling, one leg tucked under. Blood caked most of his T-shirt now, the sofa cushion had soaked up the rest. The dusting of cocaine resembled sugar. Frank pulled the socks off his hands and crossed the room, reaching out to touch Chewy's eye with his fingertip.