When the Devil Comes to Call (A Lars and Shaine Novel Book 2) (3 page)

Shaine set down her unfinished turkey sandwich. She ate another corn chip and washed it down with the ginger ale Anthony set her up with in the kitchen. Didn’t care for the way he looked at her as he explained the layout of the kitchen. Looked like he was trying to remove the many layers of her gift shop purchased winter wear to get a glimpse of what lay beneath.

She thought about the man down the hall. The one who made her father run, who turned him paranoid.

She knew if she had any chance to kill Nikki it would be a miracle. Bodyguards around, plus Lars. He’d disown her, or worse—kill her himself—if she ever took away his mentor. Lars believed in forgiveness. In Eastern philosophy, in the ability to change. He also believed the right people deserved to die. All she needed to do was convince him Nikki was the right person.

Shaine hadn’t felt so upside down since Lars swept her away off her front lawn two years ago. Seeing her dad murdered in the grass, learning to trust a professional killer, she hadn’t known what to do with the drain clog of emotions then and she didn’t know much better now.

She took another swig of ginger ale and talked herself into the truth: it was a crazy idea, killing Nikki. She didn’t even have a gun.

The silver 9mm cracked against the marble countertops when Lars set it down.

“Finish up. We’re ready to go.”

Shaine saw a different hardness in him. For the first time he looked the way she thought a killer should look. His jet-lagged eyes were rimmed in darkness, and they looked like they belonged in his granite face. She noticed a gun on each of his hips, sheriff style.

“Right now?” she asked.

“Right now.”

Shaine looked at the clock on the oven. 8:05.

“Where are we going?”

“Connecticut.”

“Why?”

“You don’t want to go? Fine.”

Shaine watched as his spell was broken, a glimmer of emotion coming over his face like he realized a great mistake. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t go,” she said.

“No. You’re right. What the fuck was I thinking. You’re not ready.” He turned away, scooping up the gun, a concern on his face she didn’t recognize. Doubt perhaps? But he didn’t doubt anything to do with his work. Shaine knew it was somehow her fault.

“I can help you. What do you need?”

“No. Forget it. Stay here.” He started to turn.

“Wait.” Her words stopped him. “It’s too early for bed, this house is freaking me out and that Anthony guy gives me the creeps. Let me help you.”

Lars turned. He examined her closely, totally different from how Anthony had looked at her. He looked in her eyes, trying to see into the future. See if she would get him killed.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure what I’m walking in to, security wise.”

“You mean how many guns you’ll be facing?” Blunt. Like a sledgehammer.

“Yeah. This is not for you. That’s what it comes down to.”

“But if you’re unsure, shouldn’t you have as much help as you can get?” She saw an opening. “You can’t trust any of these meatheads. Take me with you. You know I can follow instructions.”

Lars looked down at the gun in his hand. She saw a small twitch in his pinky finger like the synapses firing in his brain were sending tiny shock waves through his nerves.

Lars set the gun back on the counter, pushed it closer to her, took her plate of unfinished food and brought it to the sink. Shaine picked up the gun. She turned it over in her hand, released the clip like Lars showed her, racked the slide like Lars showed her, massaged her hand over the grip to find the right balance spot like Lars showed her.

“So, what do you want me to do?”

“Back me up. You won’t need to do a thing but hold the gun and look like you can use it.”

“I can use it.”

“Shaine,” Lars said. “Connecticut doesn’t have coconuts.”

***

They loaded their suitcases in the trunk of a borrowed Lincoln. Lars wasn’t sure if it belonged to Nikki or one of the suited gunmen. Each man already had a replacement piece in their holster by the time they were ready to leave. Lars started the car, turned on the defroster, blasted heat at the windshield. 

“It’s getting late,” Nikki said. “You sure you don’t want to wait?”

“I’ve been waiting too damn long,” Lars said.

Nikki spread his palms, shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, it’s your business.” Nikki smiled. “Nice to see you back in action.” He leaned in the car window. “And you, little lady,” he said to Shaine. “You’re riding with the best. Consider yourself lucky.”

“I do,” she said.

Shaine was aware of the gun in her lap. How easy it would be to pull the trigger, aim at the wrinkled face in the window. His worn-down yellow teeth made her sick when he smiled. The rubber tubes up his nose made her own nose itchy when she looked at him. Now that she heard his voice, all she could imagine was him giving the order to kill her father. Did he do it with the same insincere smile? Or did he do it with anything approximating the rage she felt inside?

She settled into her down parka, the overstuffed coat pooling up around her neck. Not a coat for sitting down, but when they bought them there was no time to try anything on. At least it did a fine job of keeping her warm. Her legs were still cold, though, her jeans not quite doing the trick.

Nikki gave him the address to a hotel where he’d already made arrangements for them. Two rooms, by Lars’s request.

Nikki put a hand on Lars’s shoulder. “Hey,” he said, making Lars look him in the eye. “I’m glad you’re doing this for me. But I’m really glad you get to do this for Lenore.” Nikki patted twice and walked away, knowing better than to expect an answer from Lars. The silence, the steel glare—this was Lars who left here nineteen years ago, about to pick up where he left off.

Lars pulled out of the driveway. The GPS spoke with a soft feminine voice only slightly robotic as it told him to turn left. The display estimated an hour-long drive to Greenwich. Despite the nine hour flight earlier in the day, Lars had never been more awake.

“Who’s Lenore?” Shaine asked.

You rarely meet a hitman with a wife. Lars knew he faced a lifetime of brief encounters, paid women, one night stands. He wasn’t celibate, but staying unentangled with relationships became one of his rules to the life. He took it as seriously as target practice and abstaining from alcohol during a job.

Then he met Lenore. In his late twenties, Lars had a confidence when he walked. The confidence of a man who could step into a room and know he could kill everyone in it. He knew how he’d do it, who would die first and who would give him a fight. That guy gets a bullet, him a broken neck. The guy near the back, beaten in with a pool cue.

He met Lenore at a bar, a room he’d already sized up. His eyes went around the small space: kill him, kill him, save the small one for last, kill her, kill him. Then he settled on her and paused. The perfect girl for one of his brief encounters.

They talked, she smiled, drawn in by his confidence. They avoided talk about careers and focused on what movies were out, what concerts they’d been to recently, how was the wine and did she like the music on the jukebox?

By the end of the night she ended up in his bed.

Lenore was classic Italian. Dark hair, dark eyes, full figured and proud of her curves. Lars had given them a close inspection and they were something to be proud of. He didn’t want to leave it at one night.

They saw more of each other. Back then, the neighborhood seemed so small. Everyone knew everyone. How they hadn’t met before was a miracle.

“My dad was in the Navy,” she said. “We’ve been in and out of every port in America, it seems like.”

“I’ve never even been on a boat,” Lars said.

“You’re not missing much. A bunch of water. I like beaches, but open ocean bores me silly.”

“So I guess we’re not going deep sea fishing anytime soon, huh?”

Instead he took her to see AC/DC at the Garden. By the end of the show she was sweating from all the dancing and head banging. Yeah, this was his kind of girl.

That was the night he told her about his job.

“So it’s true,” she said.

“You knew?”

“Ginny Fizzano told me she heard you worked for Nikki Pagani.” Lenore blew smoke to the ceiling as they lay in bed, naked in a tangle of sheets. Her smoking was the one thing he didn’t care for about her. But smokers could quit, and she mostly only smoked when she had a drink or after sex.

“Yeah, well, there it is.”

“So, it’s like, your full-time job?”

“Yep.” In the dark of the room he stared at the ceiling, finding it easier to answer her questions to a vague grey shape rather than have to look at her.

“And have you done it . . . recently?”

“You mean since we started dating?”

“Yeah.”

“No. I don’t get too many jobs. I just need to be available when I do.”

“Wait, last week when you bailed on going to see that movie, was that . . .?”

“No. I told you, no jobs for a while.” He rolled over in bed. He wanted her to see his eyes for the next part. “I won’t ever lie to you.” Lenore studied his face, trying to see the killer. “Just the fact you’re still here I’m going to take as a good sign.”

“I can’t say my mom would be overjoyed if I told her my new boyfriend is a contract killer, but I haven’t given a shit what my mom thought in ten years.”

She stubbed out her cigarette and they made love again.

A week later, Lars got a job. He pushed back dinner plans by an hour, didn’t tell her why. Vittorio’s veal parm was worth an extra hour’s wait, so Lenore didn’t question him.

Lars showed up at a back room poker game behind Cueballz Lounge and Pool Hall. He walked into the back with a drink, a double Jack and Coke, for Vic Victoriano. Handed it to him and said, “Compliments of Nikki. He wanted to say no hard feelings, okay?”

Victoriano was reluctant to take the drink at first. After his trouble with Nikki, he knew he shouldn’t be caught betting any money, that all of it should be going to paying down his debt to Mr. Pagani.

“You tell him I said thanks, okay?” Vic said with a little shake in his voice.

“I will,” said Lars. Then he took a seat in the corner. The rest of the players stayed quiet and still, the stranger in their midst brought the game to a halt. Everyone knew a little something about Victoriano’s money problems.

After a drawn out silence, Vic nervously chattered. “This game is going my way. I’m up, you can tell.” He indicated his pile of chips. “All this is for Nikki. What I mean is, he’ll get his share.”

“And that’s what I’m here for. Relax. Drink your drink. Play.”

Victoriano took a long sip of his drink, the glass sweating almost as badly as him. The dealer began slowly passing out cards again, the rest of the players comfortable in the knowledge Lars was not there for them. Let Vic give away his pot to the guy in the corner, fine, but at least wait until they won some of it back.

Lars waited, checking his watch and thinking of Lenore. He didn’t wait long. The mixture of diuretic and laxative he added to Vic’s drink took hold.

“Ah, shit, fellas. Deal me out for a round. I gotta hit the can.”

The room had largely forgotten about Lars. He sat silently in the corner, watching the game with mild interest. But when Vic left the room, Lars followed.

A job like this, better done in private.

He knew guys who would enjoy busting open the door to a poker game and letting the bullets fly, but chances are in a room like that at least half the players are packing. Many have enemies and they’d think the shots are meant for them. So for every bullet you send out toward the target, you’re going to get five coming back your way. No, better to let the gentlemen play, handle business one on one.

By the time Lars made it to the restroom, the employees toilets, not the customer’s john out in the pool hall, Vic was already sitting and wondering why his colon felt like an untied balloon releasing all its air—and his baked ziti with meat sauce dinner.

Lars stepped up to the stall door and fired three bullets through the cheap wood plank scrawled with graffiti. He listened for the sound of Vic’s last breath. It came out of him along with everything else his bowels had to offer. Lars listened a moment longer, making sure. Vic’s body slid off the toilet seat and fell head first to the floor. Lars could see the top of his head, a wide bald spot in a perfect circle, then the blood pooling around him. From the angle of the head and shoulders Lars could see, he assumed Vic’s fat ass was still on the seat, but he declined to open the door to check.

He needed one thing, though. Lars bent down and reached under the stall door. He found Vic’s right arm and pulled it forward. The body shifted and slid down lower to the floor so Vic’s chest lay flat on the tile, his hips still high over his bleeding head.

Lars removed his Rolex, a particular annoyance to Nikki. When the man owed Nikki money, he went out and bought a gold Rolex. Not a Chinese knockoff, either. The real deal. While Lars had his wrist, he checked Vic’s pulse, but there was none to be found.

Along with the watch, Lars got a fair amount of blood on his hands. He stopped at the tiny sink, pumped pink soap onto his hand and washed up. He wanted to rinse the watch off too, but couldn’t remember if a Rolex was waterproof. He wrapped it in a paper towel from the dispenser instead and stuffed the watch in his pocket.

Lars marched back to the poker game, collected Vic’s chips and pushed them across the green felt table top to the dealer and waited silently for a cash out. The dealer obliged, hurriedly.

“Vic’s checked out of the game. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

Lars left the room without a single bullet coming his way.

At the restaurant, he arrived five minutes before Lenore, had already ordered her the veal and a bottle of Pinot Noir.

“I didn’t know any better,” she said, “I’d say you were trying to get lucky tonight.”

“I already did. Won big at poker.”

She smiled and so did he. Lars lifted a glass to toast. “Salud.”

The look on Lenore’s face changed slightly. Lars noticed, followed her eyes. The cuff of his shirt was stained with blood. He turned his eyes back to her and they stayed still, mid-toast, their glasses raised and an inch from touching. He waited for her to ask, to admonish, but she stayed silent. She clinked her glass against his and drank.

She never mentioned it, but the room felt like the lights had dimmed.

When Lars was told he would be going to Arizona to find Mitch the Snitch, he told Lenore it would only be a few weeks. He told her he loved her for the first time. She told him. The emotion of the moment caught them both off guard. The ended up crying into each other’s arms until they were too exhausted to make love.

Lars got on a plane the next morning, his favorite Beretta in his checked bag.

He called when he could, but not too often. He needed to focus on the job. A few weeks became two months, then three. He had leads, but they all dried to husks in the hot desert sun. Mitch proved elusive.

A year went by. The phone calls became shorter, more perfunctory. She’d ask about the weather, he’d ask her about hers.

She couldn’t write him a Dear John letter since she never knew where he was. She could never call him, only the reverse. When she broke it off she never mentioned Bruno. Four months later, Lars found out she was dead.

She’d started dating Bruno Ramoni, son of Leo. Leo was Nikki’s white whale. The fat bastard who always eluded him and threatened to bring him down at the same time. They hated each other, and Lars thought for a short moment Leo had maybe set up Bruno with Lenore to spite Nikki, but it all seemed too convoluted.

Lenore had been shot four times. Lars asked his friends back home for as much detail as he could gather, but he didn’t recognize the patterns of any other hitters he knew of.

And what did it matter? Lenore was dead. Lars was burning to his own husk in the Arizona sun, no closer to finding Mitch.

This. This was why you didn’t get involved in a real relationship.