B009XDDVN8 EBOK (33 page)

“How do I do that?”

“Didn’t I just tell you it was about the money, you dumb shit? Here’s a deal. A hundred thou from your brother’s stash and I’ll
promise to drop my hate into your fucking pond. How does that sound?”

“Extortion wasn’t what I had in mind.” Tony looked at me like Ollie looking at Stan: Another fine mess you’ve got me into.

“What are you looking at him for?” said Billie. “What does he have to do with anything? Look at me, you fuck.”

Tony turned his head to Billie.

“You want to make amends? Find him before we do, find him first, get us the money, save your brother’s neck.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“You’ve got a week.”

“I can’t find him in a week.”

“Try.”

“You’re insane.”

“You bet I am. And if I don’t hear from you in a week, Tony, I’ll be bringing the crazy to Pitchford. Maybe just so you’ll know we’re serious, I’ll let Corky kill my little tan-pantsed man right here, right now.”

“You’re going to kill him?” said Tony.

“Or maybe we’ll let Sparky do a number on him.” Sparky was still at his table, flicking his lighter, staring at me through the flame. Flick, flick. “You got a problem with that?”

“Not really,” said Tony.

“What?” I said.

“Actually, you’d be doing me a favor.”

“What the hell?” I said.

“I understand,” said Billie. “Sponsors, like a pimple on your ass. And believe me, I know about pimples on my ass.” Billie opened up the wallet, pulled out what cash was inside, and counted. “Twenty, forty, fifty, fifty-five, fifty-six.”

“I guess the next round is on me,” said Tony.

“You guess right. Now drink the fuck up.”

She tossed the empty wallet back, and we drank the fuck up.

Y
OU WERE GOING
to let her kill me,” I said as we sped away from The Devil’s Brew, Tony squeezing his truck through the narrow city streets with cars parked on either side.

“She was just barking,” said Tony.

“And what if she wasn’t? Corky was more than ready to finish what he started twenty-five years ago. And that kid with the lighter. What a bunch of freaks.”

“You would have deserved everything you got. They’re after my brother because of what you did twenty-some years ago. And now we’ve got that crazy bitch up our assholes without us getting any closer to finding Derek.”

“Just to be precise, she’s up your asshole, not mine.”

“Oh, she’s up your asshole, too, Moretti. What did she call you? Her little tan-pantsed man? You give her half a chance, she’ll be sitting on your face.”

“Don’t,” I said. “Just the thought…” I paused as I swallowed a belch.

“Like Fat Dog, like daughter. And there you sit, with enough stolen money to get her off all our backs for good.”

“It’s funny, isn’t it? I’ve been in Pitchford, oh, six hours now, and you’re the third person who’s put in a claim for the money. What do you think I have left after all these years?”

“You better hope it’s enough. She’s threatening me, which means she’s threatening you, because if she comes to take me out, I’m taking you out first.”

I looked at him and wondered if I should be surprised and then realized no, I shouldn’t be. So why did I feel such disappointment? “That’s the Tony Grubbins I remember. And it feels good, like the balance of the universe has been restored. Too bad you don’t have a football handy to throw at my face.”

“I’ll find something.”

“It’s funny how some things just never change.”

“You sure haven’t.”

We stayed silent for the rest of the trip, as the narrow city streets made way for the wider suburban boulevards. I hadn’t left my car at the Stoneway; not knowing when I would get back and not wanting to leave it sitting alone in the lot, I had parked it back at my motel, a Hampton Inn on the Pitchford strip where I had registered as Edward Holt. I still had the Pennsylvania license I had stolen from the airport lot, with its magnets in place, and I had slapped that over my plate just in case anyone trolled the nearby hotels looking for a Virginia registration. What with the fake license plate and being registered in my new name, I figured I was pretty well covered.

But when we reached the motel, and I saw my car sitting dark and silent among all the other cars in the lot, something seemed wrong. I surveyed the area. Lines of cars by the building, a white van in the corner, a truck parked by the Dumpster. Everything quiet, everything dead.

“How long are you staying in Pitchford?” said Tony.

“I’ll be gone tomorrow.”

“No lingering visit to the old hometown, hey?”

“There’s not enough Zofran in the world.”

“Zofran?”

“Nausea medication.”

“Oh, it’s a joke,” said Tony. “Okay.”

“What’s up your butt?”

He stared at me for a bit in the glow of his dashboard. “What were you thinking?”

I knew exactly what he meant. “I was seventeen and high,” I said. “On weed you sold us, I might add.”

“It was your whole little crew, I suppose. Augie and Ben?”

“I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“You know what you guys did to me, right?”

“You said you were grateful. You said the guy who did it did you a favor.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I was blowing smoke up my own ass. I thought I had let go of my hatred of your fucking guts, but I guess some chains are just wound too tight.”

“But it’s not true that we’re no closer to finding your brother. Billie Flynn told us that after Derek testified he was put in the witness protection program.”

“So?”

“So someone at the US Marshals Service knows where he is.”

“What are you going to do, hack their computers?”

“Something like that,” I said.

“From here on in, leave me out of it.”

“Believe me, I will,” I said. “Does anything look strange here?”

“Where?”

“This lot. Does anything look wrong? It seems weirdly quiet, nothing moving around.”

“It’s a parking lot at three in the morning.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” I opened the door, climbed out of the truck, closed the door again with a sharp thump. I looked away for a bit, peered into the darkness, saw nothing. Through the open window I said, “Thanks for trying to help. I guess it was good seeing you after all these years.”

“No it wasn’t,” said Tony. “But I really am sorry about the dog.”

“Well, to be fair, he did seem to be inordinately fond of crapping on your lawn.”

He gave me a half smile before he drove away, Tony Grubbins, the great tormentor of my youth. He gave me a half smile, and he drove away, and I felt a strange sense of loss. And I couldn’t tell whether it was because he was leaving, or because I had finally let out my secret and the world hadn’t changed.

I shook myself back to the present, shook my head and cleared my senses, before stepping over to my black SUV to make sure everything was in order. It seemed fine, just an anonymous car in an anonymous lot. I looked around, all seemed quiet, dark. Why did I feel so uneasy? Turning back to the car I noticed the something, just a little something, but still my neck seized.

The magnetized PA license plate was a little off-center, just enough that some of the Virginia plate was showing through.

Had I been that sloppy in placing it there? I remembered lining up the edges, I remembered running my fingers across all the sides to make sure it was exact. I stooped down to readjust it and suddenly had a horrible thought. I stood up again, grabbed my keys, pressed the fob to unlock the car. When I slammed open the rear hatch, the cover over the cargo bay opened up as well, exposing the contents.

It was still there, along with the assorted detritus from my suburban life: gardening tools, leaf bags, Eric’s baseball crap, a pair of golf shoes, and the green metal toolbox, still locked as if rusted shut, as innocuous as a flower. I let out a deep breath of relief and was just about to close the rear when I heard my name, my old name, its triple syllables rattling together like the tail of a snake.

“Moretti? Yo, Moretti.”

I
GRABBED AT
whatever was in the car, found Eric’s official Little League aluminum bat, picked it up before slamming shut the hatch. Only then did I turn around.

Richie Diffendale. Walking calmly toward me, a finger in the air as if signaling for a busboy.

“Get the hell away from me, Richie,” I said.

“I just want to talk,” he said as he continued approaching. “I was getting greedy in the bar, I admit it. But I’m sure we can still work something out. Maybe five figures, low fives even. Ten?”

“There’s nothing to work out.”

“Don’t do it for me,” he said. “Do it for Maddie.”

I tilted my head. He came still closer and lifted his finger in the air again.

“She gets a better life,” he said, “you get to glide away safe and free, everyone’s
gaaak
—”

This last word wasn’t a new piece of Pitchford slang—you know, I’m gaaak, you’re gaaak, we’re all just gaaak—but the sound that emerged from Richie Diffendale’s throat when I slammed his face with the baseball bat.

The bat gave off that aluminum ping as his head swiveled with the blow. His body landed with a thump as his teeth rattled along the asphalt like a turn at Yahtzee.

I would have taken the time to admire my handiwork—my shot into the gap couldn’t help but improve his smile—but there was no time. The moment I realized it was Diffendale calling my name, even as fogged by drink as I was, it all became clear in a flash. Richie hadn’t come back to try again to make a deal, not with the way his last effort had ended. He had waited outside the bar, he had followed my car to the hotel, he had made the call to Clevenger, the opportunistic son of a bitch. Which meant the thugs were already on-site, maybe waiting for me in Edward Holt’s hotel room. Richie was in the parking lot just to ensure I didn’t simply drive off. Misinterpreting my motives at the Lexus, he had probably already called up to the room with what he was seeing before he tried to delay me. Which meant there wasn’t time for niceties or chitchat.

So I did my small talk with an Easton Rampage, minus eleven.

I dropped to the ground and reached for my holster, touched only my belt. Crap. I had left the gun and holster in Tony’s glove compartment.

I gripped tight to the bat and scanned the parking lot. All clear.

I grabbed the keys from my pocket, scooted between my car and a Honda, took hold of the driver’s door handle, swung the door open, swung myself inside. The car started like a dream. I checked the mirrors: rearview clear, side views clear, clear—clear except for a sprawled leg on the asphalt.

The only way out was right over Richie Diffendale’s prostrate body.

Where some see obstacles, I see opportunities, and here was one. Simply by backing out I would free myself from my immediate peril, free Maddie from her abusive husband, and right all past wrongs meted upon me by this creep. He had sold me out tonight, like he had twenty-five years ago when I got my scar, like he had whenever he laughed hysterically while Tony Grubbins
pounded on my head. It was all so perfect my unconscious must have set the stage, and all I had to do was put the shifter into reverse. One little act to do so much good.

Yet I couldn’t do it. He would do it to me, I had no doubt, he already had, but I couldn’t do it to him. Even with all that had happened, what was true in Vegas remained true. I was no torpedo. With the car still running, I opened the door, dashed back out to the lot. Richie was moaning as I grabbed him under the armpits and lifted him enough so I could pull him out of the car’s way.

He whimpered as his shattered jaw dragged loosely behind his face. And there was something else sounding underneath the whimper, like the clicking of bone on bone, or something.

“You touch Madeline again,” I said to Richie Diffendale as I dragged him, “and I’m going to finish the job.”

I dropped him out of my route and ran back to the car. But just as I was about to leap into the driver’s seat, the door slammed closed and some bullet-headed brute was standing there, his hands flexing for me. Trapped on three sides, I spun around to get the hell out of there, when another brute slammed me in the gut.