White Tiger on Snow Mountain (31 page)

Hey, Eddie said. It is what it is. What are you gonna do?

I appreciate that, Eddie. As far as I’m concerned, we can call it even. Hey, who knows? Maybe you scared some sense into the kid. Believe me, it ain’t like in our day. Bunch of amateurs now. I could use you. If you ever need a job.

Get the fuck out of here. I’m retired. I just know the girl from around, you know.

Yeah, speaking of. That could be a bit of a problem, Eddie.
Kind of a loose end. I mean you’re a rock, we all know that. Richie’s dumb, but he’s family and the kid they call Retard is his boy. But this girl. Her we don’t know.

Yeah, Eddie said. I see your point.

You get me?

Yeah.

I can have one of the guys handle it.

No thanks, Richie. I don’t mind.

OK, good. Richie patted his hand. However you’re more comfortable. Not around here, though. I can’t even fart anymore without the Feds sniffing my shorts. Believe me you’re lucky to be out of it. Remember the house in the woods?

The place we went fishing that time?

No, my wife’s mother’s old place, remember?

On the hill? With the gate?

Yeah. Nanette kept putting off dealing with it, then she got sick and you know. It’s for sale but we can use it. Bring her there tonight.

OK, Richie. And listen, I was sorry to hear about Nanette. She was a great lady.

Yeah, thanks, Richie said. We got the flowers. It meant a lot to me. And you’re sure you’re OK doing this? I understand if you feel sentimental about it, like if you were banging her or whatever.

No, I don’t mind.

Richie smiled, showing brown and gold teeth and only the fake ones weirdly white. Same old Eddie. At least some things never change.

Eddie fetched Doreen and they got back in his Caddy. She’d been hungrier than she realized and had devoured all the cake
and half the cookies, which she had to admit were all amazingly good, and now as soon as they pulled away she asked him in a rush everything she couldn’t before. Eddie had to wait for her to exhaust herself before he could even answer. Yes, he knew these people. Yes, he used to work with them. Yes, the stories they told were true, more or less. Even the one about the fork? Pretty much. But they left out the part about how I ended up in prison for ten years. For that? For a bunch of things. Anyway, that’s where I got into painting.

Eddie dropped her at his place. He told her to relax, take a bath, have some wine and try to calm down but not to leave. Everything was going to be fine. She just had to wait till he got back and then they’d talk. She was too freaked to go anywhere anyway. She took a hot shower and then sat on the couch where she used to pose, wrapped in a towel, petting Felix the cat and letting her hair dry.

Eddie drove back to his storage space. He opened the locker again, and this time he lifted the tray full of cash and got out the two pistols he had hidden underneath, one a long-barreled Magnum revolver, one a small semiautomatic that was easier to conceal. He cleaned and loaded both by the single lightbulb in the storage space and put them back in the locker. He took out some of the cash, then relocked the box and put it in his trunk. He threw everything else in the storage in the trash, including the key. Then he drove home. When he came in with the locker, Doreen was still on the couch, although the cat had gotten bored and wandered off to crunch some kibble. Eddie told her to go get dressed, and while she was upstairs he called a cab and stuffed the cash from his pocket into a manila envelope. When she got back he sat her on the couch.

Here, he said, handing her the fattened envelope. That is thirty grand.

What? she asked him. What for? She opened the envelope and started ruffling the bills in amazement.

Listen to me. He pushed the envelope closed. There’s a cab coming to take you to the airport. You don’t go home. You don’t call anyone. Give me your phone. She reluctantly took it from her purse. He smashed it under his shoe.

What the fuck, Eddie, you’re scaring me.

Good. You should be scared because this is scary shit. You understand me? This is real life. School is over. You don’t go home. You don’t pack anything. You have plenty there to buy what you need. You pick a place you always wanted to go. But not somewhere you know anybody. Someplace new. You buy a ticket tonight and you go. And you don’t come back. Ever. If you come back, if you stop, if you turn around, you’re dead. Do you understand me, Doreen?

The whole time he spoke she had been crying, tears streaming over her cheeks while she shook her head and her fingers gripped at his. He squeezed back now and asked her again, Do you understand me, and she nodded, yes, she did. But what about you?

I’ll be fine, he said. I just have to tie up a few loose ends. The cab honked outside. Eddie could see it in the driveway. I mean, she said, can’t you come with me? Can’t we meet up?

Sure, Eddie said. Later. He scribbled a few words on her envelope. When you get settled in your new spot, you wait a month and then write me at this email. No names no details no location, just hi, how are you. I’ll know it’s you. If I answer, then
it’s safe for us to meet. If I don’t, wait a month and try again. OK? She nodded. The cab honked again. OK, he said. Let’s go. He walked her to the door and she hugged him tight. Thank you, she whispered in his ear. That’s OK, kid, he told her. Forget it. She shook her head and said, No, never, and kissed his cheek, but he knew that she was very young and that eventually she would.

When the cab left, Eddie realized how hungry he was and how tired. He cooked a steak that was in the fridge. He ate most of it, gave the rest to Felix, and then went upstairs and took a nap with a loaded gun on the mattress beside him. When he woke up, he got scissors and needle and thread. Sitting at the table in his boxers, glasses on his nose, he slit open the lining of his suitcase and layered in all his cash. He stitched it up and packed his essentials, some clothes, his reflux meds, heart pills, an extra pair of reading glasses. He took a shower, shaved, and got dressed. He went downstairs, it was starting to be sundown now, and gathered up all his work, his paintings, drawings, sketch pads, and burned them in the barbeque out back. He had to hack up the bigger paintings with a hatchet, and some of the oil paint smoked thickly, but the wind was high and he didn’t think the neighbors would complain. He put the suitcase in his backseat. He attached a silencer to the automatic and put the guns in the two side pockets of his jacket. He locked up, carrying Felix under his arm. Outside, he took his collar off and set him free. Then he drove out to the country, to Richie’s wife’s mother’s old house.

It was dark now, and when he pulled up to the gate, he flashed his lights once and honked lightly. One of the Armani-wearing
muscle dudes from the bakery pulled back the rusty gate and waved him into the drive. The Denali and Lexus were both there too.

Hey, Eddie, Armani said. Where’s the girl?

In the trunk. I’ll pop it, but you do the lifting. My back is killing me. I’m way too old for this bullshit.

Armani laughed. No problem. Eddie closed his door and followed the kid around to the back, then pressed the button on the key chain. The trunk unlatched and Eddie stepped behind him, pulling out the silenced gun as the kid lifted the lid. Huh, he said curiously, as Eddie shot him in the base of the skull. He fell like a log and Eddie rolled him down the slope of the driveway into the shrubs. The door to the house opened, and the skinny guy in the tracksuit stepped out, peering into the darkness. Eddie hid the gun behind his back and walked quickly toward him.

Hey, Jerry.

Hey, Eddie, where’s Paul?

Getting the girl out of the trunk. You better give him a hand. Kid’s making a mess of it. Richie inside?

Yeah, watching the game, Jerry said. Hey, Paulie, he yelled. For Christ’s sake, how hard can it be? As he walked past, Eddie raised the gun and shot him twice between the shoulder blades, then leaned over and shot him again in the head. The muzzle flash lit the shadows and the woods around him absorbed the pop of the silencer. The air smelled damp. Maybe up here it had rained.

Eddie put the gun back in his side pocket and headed into the house, latching the front door quietly behind him. It was a small old house, mostly dark, with light and noise coming from
the den in back where the game was on. But he heard movement in the kitchen and ducked in there first. Fat Dominic was at the counter, making himself a sandwich from a platter of cold cuts and fresh rolls and rye bread. Hey, Eddie, he said. You hungry?

No thanks, Dom. I just ate a rib eye but I could use a beer if you don’t mind.

You got it. Dom headed to the fridge and bent over with a sigh to withdraw a beer. Eddie shot him several times through the liver, more or less, it was hard to tell on a body that big. Dominic fell into the fridge and Eddie leaned in and put the last round in his head. The game was on loud, but the crash of Dom’s bulk was loud too, so Eddie quickly pulled the Magnum and headed for the den. Little Richie appeared in the door. Eddie? He put a hand up, instinctively, to fend off the huge barrel, and the blast tore most of his fingers away before exploding his head like an egg. The sound was shattering and Eddie’s ears rang as he rushed on through the door. Uncle Richie was in the recliner. Renard and the other Armani dude were on the couch. Eddie shot Renard first, in the gut. He looked sad and genuinely surprised, as if he’d thought they were pals. By then Armani Two had his gun out from his ankle holster, but he shot too quickly and the bullet went wide, punching a hole in the paneling. Eddie shot him through the heart. Then he turned the gun on Richie, who hadn’t moved. His hands were on the arms of the chair. One held a beer, the other the remote. He muted the game.

Just like I always told them, he said, looking over the corpses. Most ruthless fucker in the room.

Eddie sighed. Sorry about this, Richie. It didn’t seem right, about the girl. You know how it is.

Richie nodded. Sure. I understand, Eddie. Do what you got to do. He waved the remote. The whole world’s shit anyway. He sat back in the recliner and shut his eyes, as if for a shave, and Eddie shot him in the head. With the gun barrel, he pressed the remote, turning off the TV, then checked the other rooms. Everything was quiet. No sirens or cars approaching. He left, shutting the door and killing the lights behind him and wiping down the knob. He pulled out carefully, avoiding the bodies, and relocked the gates. He drove a ways, then pulled off on a small bridge and wiped down both guns before tossing them in the murky water and heading onto the Turnpike. He took an exit into a nameless industrial patch, parking in a crowded lot behind a strip club. He grabbed his suitcase, leaving his keys in the door, and used the pay phone in the clam house across the way to call a cab to the airport, where he got on the night flight to Paris.

Eddie lit another smoke. The afternoon was edging into evening, with the shadows leaning lower and the tourists mostly gone. The little wind picked a few leaves, then let them drop on the ground. Eddie stood and put a twenty-euro note on the table. “Jeez, I talked your ear off,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Guess I really got tired of not speaking English. This is on me.”

I protested feebly, but he wouldn’t hear of it. “No, forget about it. Anyway, I leave for Rome tomorrow so I’ve got to get rid of this money.”

I reminded him that both countries now used Euros. He laughed. “Oh yeah, I forgot. At least in Italy I’ll be able to understand a menu, maybe.” He waved his Marlboro at the park. “But Paris sure is fucking beautiful.”

I agreed. It sure was. He coughed wetly and pulled a hankie from a back pocket. “Anyway, have fun. And stick with the not smoking. These fucking things are going to kill me.”

“Right.” I stood to shake his hand. “Bon voyage.”

I sat back down and watched him amble off, wondering if anything he’d said was true. Was he just another random bullshitter of the sort one met in bars and cafés worldwide? I didn’t even know his last name. I sipped the melted ice left in my soda glass. He was not lying about Paris at least; it was indeed fucking beautiful, impossibly so. Like a vast and perfect work of art—a coral bed or a cathedral—to which countless generations had added their small bones. Then I noticed that he’d left his sketchbook behind. I flipped through. It was nearly full, with dozens of sketches, some quite detailed, in charcoal and pastel and pencil, of Paris’s buildings, trees, people, and bridges in different seasons and lights. They were, without a doubt, the worst drawings I’d ever seen in my life.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank my editor Ed Park for asking if I had a “cache” of stories he could see and making this collection a reality. I am immensely grateful to him and to everyone at Little A. Thanks especially to Lynn Buckley for another amazing cover. I also continue to have to the world’s best agent, Doug Stewart. I am deeply grateful to him and everyone at Sterling Lord Literistic, especially Madeleine Clark. Several of these stories appeared elsewhere, and I am very thankful for all the support my work has received. Most particularly, I wish to thank Lorin Stein at
Paris Review,
who plucked my odd little tale from the heap and made a teenage dream come true, and Nicole Rudick for helping me get it right. Thanks also to the folks at
Fence,
and as always to Rivka Galchen, who continues to be a much better friend and comrade than I deserve. Most of all I want to thank my family, whose love and faith have always been there, and the many friends who have carried me this far.