The Devil's Redhead (23 page)

A car approached slowly from the edge of the compound. It was a Mercedes sedan, one of the older diesels. The engine pinged and chugged as the car edged forward. There were seven men inside, packed so tight they created one large multiheaded silhouette.

As the headlights went on and off, relaying the coded signal Cesar had chosen, Frank reached for the flashlight on the table beside his hand. Three, he thought. He was supposed to flash back three times. Three was the age Jesse had been when he'd died. And that was three years ago. If Jesse had been born the day he died, Frank thought, tonight might be the very night he got murdered all over again.

By the time his thoughts circled back to the signal he was supposed to provide, it was too late. The Mercedes slammed into reverse. Lyle Akers, sensing the setup had failed, cut off the car's retreat and opened fire from behind. The Mercedes's rear window shattered to the sound of screams and bloodcurdling Spanish as the brothers and cousins of Gaspar Arevalo threw open their doors and clawed across one another in the tight-packed car. One by one, amid raining gunfire, they drove or fell or got pushed to the dirt and found cover in the scrap heaps nearby.

Frank dove beneath the table, curling into a ball. The ground was cold and wet; he burrowed into it, thinking: Mudsuckers. Live bait. Looking up through his hands he watched as one of the Mexicans fled to the back of the Mercedes and struggled with the trunk, as though that was where they'd stored the serious weapons. He was gunned down fumbling with his keys. The others resorted to pistols, returning fire by moonlight and by the sound and muzzle flashes of their attackers' guns.

The smoke-filled air crackled with the reports of pump guns and pistols and shortly Lyle lay on the ground, clutching his midriff and screaming. One of the Mexicans ran to claim Lyle's shotgun from the ground beside him and finish him off. Ducking, the Mexican then ran to the side of the clearing and fired into a muddy swale barricaded with tires. A second Mexican came up behind, reached into the spot where the bullets had gone and retrieved a second shotgun glistening with blood. One of Roy's men came up behind and opened fire at the Mexicans' backs. The two men fell but not without landing one shot in their killer's leg. The man toppled, struggled back to his feet, limped to the front of the Mercedes and poured four shotgun rounds into the body of another Mexican writhing there.

Frank closed his eyes and wrapped his arms about his head until finally, as suddenly as it had started, the gunfire died. The stench of cordite hung in the air. Opening his eyes, he watched a vast shapeless cloud of smoke settle slowly, brightened by moonlight and drifting down in patches toward the dirt. Screams came from various places. Frank could make out Hack's voice and another wailing in Spanish.

The Lincoln roared into the clearing, Roy behind the wheel. He slammed the car into park, engine running, and ran toward the spot where Hack had fallen. He picked his brother up beneath the arms and tried to move him but Hack kicked, clutching his midriff and screaming. Roy, searching right and left through the acrid haze, called out for Snuff, cursing him, telling him to come help. Snuff staggered from his hiding place, tottered in the open air for a moment then hustled toward Roy. Grabbing Hack's ankles, he helped carry him to the Lincoln where they laid him out, crazed, howling, in the backseat.

Roy turned back around, lurched to the front of the Mercedes where one of the Mexicans lay dead, tugged the man's gun from his fingers, returned to Snuff and forced the weapon into his hands. Snuff did not respond. He just stood there watching Hack, thrashing in the backseat of the Lincoln, clutching his exposed viscera, trying to shove them back inside, his hands slopped in blood.

“You shoot the motherfucker,” Roy shouted, pointing at the sawbuck table. “You shoot him dead.”

Hack screamed, “God … Please, you can't … Roy, hey, Jesus, ah please, God, no …”

Roy shoved Snuff toward the table then ran to where Lyle had fallen, leaving Snuff standing there alone, the gun in his hands. He looked down at it as though it might fly up of its own accord. Lifting his head, he gazed all around him through the stinging haze at the fallen men, some still writhing in the mud. He scuttled toward the table beneath which Frank still lay hiding but he got no closer than ten yards before he raised the gun and opened fire, spraying the area in a berserk side-to-side motion. He was weeping. Frank felt the bullets connect with the table, the muddy grass nearby. Snuff dropped the gun where he stood and gripped his head, making a sound Frank had never heard before. Then Snuff staggered back sobbing to the Lincoln. He helped Roy lay Lyle's body out in the trunk. They got into the car and Roy jammed it in gear, the wheels spun in the mud and the car swerved right and left as it dodged the Mercedes and vanished through the scrap yard gate.

Shortly one of Felix's other gunmen appeared, the one with the wounded leg. He dragged himself out from his hiding place among the smoke-obscured tire mounds and, propped on one knee, called out and waved for his lone surviving friend. The Le Mans appeared. The driver got out, gathered up his wounded companion then dragged the dead one to the car and toppled the body into the backseat. A moment later they were gone, too.

Frank lay beneath the table, waiting, arms wrapped tight around his head. When it had been absolutely still for quite some time, he rose from the mud, inspecting himself. He was filthy, but unharmed.

His eyes watering from the cordite and smoke, he got to his feet, sneezed, and stumbled toward the Mercedes. Shattered glass covered the backseat, the car was riddled with holes, but from the looks of it all the shotgun fire had aimed high. The point, he guessed, was to kill the Mexicans, not the car. The upholstery and dash were shredded but the tires were good. The keys still hung from the ignition cylinder. He tried the door, struggled to get it open, swept the shattered glass off the upholstery, and sat. Gripping the steering wheel, his hands came away with blood. He rubbed his hands on his pant legs, wiped the wheel with his shirttail. He tried the ignition and gasped with joy when the engine turned over. He struggled with the gearshift, lodged the transmission into reverse, then backed out of the clearing and down the aisles of wreckage.

Abatangelo sat at a small, kidney-shaped table of yellow Formica in a place called Zippy Donuts. A fluorescent tube buzzed overhead, flashing dim shocks of light that caused the reflections in the window glass to jitter, like images in an old home movie. Across the table sat Jill Rosemond.

“I've been to a number of bars where the twins did their little act,” she said, “hustling pool. Three weeks, I've done this, from Modesto to Galt. You would not believe some of these places, or the creatures who inhabit them. That's what I was trying to get through to your friend, Ms. Beaudry. I don't have Frank Maas at the top of any list. From what I've seen, just about anybody could have killed those boys, given what they were up to.”

In the background the insomniac sweet-tooth crowd milled in and out. The donut shop was run by a Korean family, and the counter girl, her smile encaged in braces, rang the register brightly, thanking one and all with ferocious gratitude.

“No one ever forgot those two. None too many wanted to see them back. As for Frank Maas, I didn't even know he existed till this afternoon. I got an address—”

“How?” Abatangelo asked, interrupting.

Jill Rosemond cocked her head. She looked a little older in this light. Sleep deprivation, maybe. Money worries. Abatangelo wondered if she had children. Or dogs. She seemed the sort to have dogs.

“Addresses aren't hard to come by,” she said.

“Let me see the printout,” Abatangelo said, extending his hand. When she affected puzzlement, he added, “You got an address for somebody you say you didn't even know existed till this afternoon. That's quick. Either a cop gave it to you or you bought it from an information mill.”

She thought it over a moment, then reached into her shoulder bag and removed a sheet of coarse gray paper almost identical to the one Eddy had given Abatangelo his first night out. He took it from her, read the addresses, and noticed the combination matched Shel's up to the three-year mark, then things were different. The most recent address, cross-referenced to the registration of Shel's truck, was the one Abatangelo knew. The Akers' place.

“I thought you couldn't access DMV information unless you intended to serve process,” he said, handing the paper back.

Jill Rosemond froze. “Who told you that?”

He liked her response. “You've got some paper to hang on Frank. A subpoena? Summons?”

“You're getting ahead of yourself.”

“Why didn't you go out to the house, instead of the bar?”

“I did go out. No one was there.”

“When was this?”

“Not long before I met up with you and Ms. Beaudry.”

Abatangelo considered this. It made sense, he supposed.

She added, “It's not an easy place to find.”

“I wouldn't know.”

She cocked her head again. “You said—”

“I have an address. I never said I'd been out there.”

“Don't insult me. I've got eyes. I'm not stupid. You and Lachelle—”

“We just met.”

Jill Rosemond sat back and laughed. “Not possible,” she said. “Not from what I saw.”

“Appearances deceive. I'm sure, given your line of work, you've discovered that to be true.”

“You seemed very protective.”

“It's my way.” He reached out his hand. “What other printouts did you get on this Frank character?”

Jill Rosemond laughed again, a little less naturally this time. “Excuse me?”

“A rap sheet,” Abatangelo said. “Or does that take longer than just a few hours?”

She studied him. “You still refuse to give me your name?”

We've been through this, Abatangelo thought. You didn't like my answer. I'm new here. A stranger, just passing through.

“Who I am isn't important. Not yet.”

“What's your stake in this?”

“This?”

“The Briscoe murders.”

“Not a thing.”

“In Frank Maas, then.”

The beaming counter girl appeared, bearing a coffeepot. Her braces gleamed, her eyes quivered, strands of hair erupted from under her hair net. Abatangelo accepted a warm-up for fear of making her cry.

“Given what you've told me,” he said once the girl moved on, “given what I learned from Shel tonight, I'd say everyone involved has known happier times. I'm a firm believer in happier times. That's my stake.”

“What did she tell you?”

“Later.”

“Why not now?”

“I need a better sense of what's relevant, what's not, before I say something that might drag her into your orbit.”

“What orbit is that?”

“Punishment.”

Jill Rosemond smirked and waved her hand. “You sound like her now.”

“You've got to account for two dead twins. You're trying to tell me, if you find out who killed them, that's it?”

“It's the end of the matter for me, yes. I don't have any power to go beyond that.”

“You hand it off to the law.”

“That's my client's decision, not mine.”

Abatangelo laughed.

She said, “I asked what your stake is in all this.”

“Like you won't listen to what I have to say, regardless.”

“I'll listen to anybody. Your friend was right in that regard. It doesn't mean I'll believe them. Or say yes if they ask for money.”

“I haven't asked for money.”

“I'm impressed. It's saintly of you.”

“That's me. A true believer.”

“In happier times.”

“There you go.”

“Even if you have to remove Frank Maas from the picture.”

Abatangelo looked down, sipped his coffee. “I have no particular interest in seeing him suffer.”

“Then nothing you've said here makes sense.”

“I don't recall saying much of anything.”

“You've said enough. Believe me. Look, I need to speak with him. Frank Maas.”

“I understand. I doubt you improved your chances given your performance tonight. You won't have much luck getting any further following the same tack.”

“Which means you might come in handy.”

“Could be.”

“Do you think he'll run?”

Abatangelo's sense of Frank was that he resembled any number of goofs he'd come across over the years, in prison and out. The kind that never mean any harm but always end up making somebody suffer. The kind that always forget and never learn. Run? Hell yes. And take Shel with him.

“I'd say that's a distinct possibility.”

“He won't be doing himself any favors if he does.”

“It's been my experience,” Abatangelo said, “that the people who crow loudest about standing tall are the ones who've never had to do it.”