Bad Blood (16 page)

And to shoot. I’d taught him that, too.

Loosely by his side Jimmy held an old Winchester. 30-30, maybe the one Tony had given him when he was twelve. The shack smelled of stale beer, kerosene, and disuse. Shadows danced on the walls, moved over our faces. It struck me then how much Jimmy looked like Tony: the same short, powerful build, the same square jaw and dark, unyielding eyes. But where Tony looked as if he’d been put together by a rockslide, Jimmy had been carved more carefully. His nose was straighter than Tony’s, his eyes set less deep; but the take-it-or-leave-it in them was Tony’s, too.

To Jimmy’s right, next to the wall, Alice Brown stood with her arms wrapped around her. She had taken off her hat, but not her parka; the potbellied woodstove in the corner wasn’t giving off enough heat for that. She was watching me with guarded eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I said to her. “I didn’t believe you.”

“You had no reason to,” she answered calmly.

“I wanted to. But I couldn’t afford it.”

“I had to make sure Jimmy wanted to see you,” she said.

I turned back to Jimmy. “Did you?”

“Hell, yes!” Jimmy leaned the rifle against the wall,
reached
into the Stewart’s bag on a rickety table by the stove. He pulled out a six-pack, freed a can from its plastic collar, tossed it to me. He held out another, said “Allie?” in an unsure voice. Alice shook her head.

I dropped onto an upended wooden box, popped the top of the beer. Jimmy leaned against the table. There was one spindly chair in the room and he gestured Alice to it with his beer and a tentative smile.

“No,” she said, with no smile at all.

So the chair stayed empty as I sat and Jimmy leaned and Alice stood. On the table next to the Stewart’s bag was a half-eaten meatball hero, melted cheese and tomato sauce congealing on aluminum foil. “You mind if I finish this?” Jimmy asked me. “I’m starving.”

“Go ahead,” I said. He scooped up the sandwich, bit into it. Tomato sauce dripped on the floor, kicked up tiny craters in the dust. I asked, “When was the last time you ate?”

“Yesterday,” he said, his mouth full of bread and meatballs. “Lunch.”

I put my beer can on the floor, went to the table, took the carton of Salems from the bag. I shook out a pack, found a book of matches in the bottom of the bag. I lit a Salem as I sat down again.

Jimmy watched me. “You hate those,” he said.

“Damn right,” I answered.

I smoked and Jimmy ate. I asked, “Where were you yesterday?”

“Here,” he said, wiped his mouth on a wadded-up paper napkin. “Been here for a few days.”

“How many?”

He looked uncomfortable. “About a week,” he answered. “Since Allie threw me out.”

Over by the wall, Alice dropped her arms, turned around to stare out the window at the impenetrable darkness.

“Allie—” Jimmy said.

She shook her head, didn’t turn around.

Jimmy looked at me, helplessly. “I come up here sometimes. To think. You know. Nobody comes here, except in summer. When Allie . . .” His eyes shifted to her; she didn’t move. “Where was I gonna go? I didn’t want to crash with nobody. No way I was going back to Tony’s. So I came here. I mean, just for a while. Just, you know, to get it together.”

I said nothing, tasted the cool taste of menthol, wished for a Kent. Jimmy went on, “I was on my way to work yesterday, in the van. Had the police scanner on just to listen to the cop talk. Heard about Wally. Heard Brinkman was looking for me. Well, no shit, Sherlock!” He grinned, but the grin seemed strained.

“What did you do?”

“Turned the hell around and came back here. What’d you think?”

“Did you talk to anybody?”

“What do you mean, talk?”

“You have a CB in the van, don’t you?”

“Oh, yeah, and I said, ‘Breaker, breaker, this is Jimmy Antonelli, tell Brinkman I’m up at the quarry.’ What’re you, fucking nuts?”

“How did Alice know you were here?”

“He called me,” Alice said, without turning around. Her voice was strong, but waiting to crack, like spring ice. “In the middle of the night, from someplace closed. He asked me to come after dark, and bring him some things.”

I looked around the shack, at the leaning walls, at the cardboard jammed over the missing windowpane, at the sleeping bag spread on the floor, at the dirt and the darkness in the corners.

“How long you figure to be here?” I asked. “A couple of months? A few years, maybe, until everyone forgets?”

“Years? What the hell are you talking about?” Above the grin Jimmy’s eyes were confused. “A few days, that’s all. Just till the heat lets up a little.”

“Then what?”

“Then I’ll take off. Time I left this dead-end place anyhow.” He crumpled his empty beer can one-handed, flipped it into the Stewart’s bag, popped the top on another.

“And go where?”

“What’s the difference?” He slurped beer off the top of the can. “New York, Chicago. Hell, L.A.! I hear it’s nice out there. You been there?” I didn’t answer. “Anywhere. I got a million choices, man. I’m gonna disappear. Change my name. You know.” He laughed. “I’m gonna grow a big fuckin’ mustache, be a real dago wop, like my grandaddy! Hey, whadda-you a-think?” He looked from Alice’s back, which didn’t move, to me. His grin was desperate for company.

I dropped my cigarette butt in my empty beer can, listened to the hiss it made. “All right,” I said, looking up at Jimmy. “Now listen to me, and hear every goddamn
word
.” The grin wavered a little. “You don’t know shit about life on the run. You’ll never get out of the county. If you do you won’t last six months. You’ll be spotted in Asshole, Texas, by some pork-faced sheriff who sits around reading wanted posters because he’s got nothing else to do. And you’re a cowboy, aren’t you, Jimmy? You’ll pull out that Winchester when they come for you in the hole you’re hiding in, which’ll be just like this one except instead of cold and filthy it’ll be hot and filthy and the water’ll taste bad. And they’ll blow your head off. And that’ll be it, Jimmy. That’ll be all of it.”

He stared at me for a long moment; then he pushed sharply away from the table. He turned away, ran a hand over his hair, turned back. He stood looking at me, his empty hands opening and closing.

“What the fuck you want me to do, man?” For the first time the fear stood out in his eyes. “Brinkman’s after my ass, you know he is. He’s gonna hang this on me if he can. What am I supposed to do, just let him?”

Alice turned from the window then. Her lip trembled as she looked from him to me and back again.

“Did you kill Wally Gould?” I asked him.

Color drained from his face. He sank down slowly onto the chair.

“You think so, Mr. S.?” he asked quietly. “That what you think?”

I lit two cigarettes, passed one to him. He took it, hunching forward in the chair. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“Listen,” I said, in a voice gentler than the one I’d been
using
. “Listen, Jimmy. That’s not my only question. I’ve got a lot of questions, and you’re going to have to answer them all. Jimmy?” I waited; he looked up at me. “You’ll have all of me, either way. Either way, Jimmy. But I want to hear it from you.”

He took in smoke, exhaled. He stood, walked around aimlessly, sat down again.

“Wally. That stupid little fuck,” he said in a half-whisper. “He was real into making trouble for me. With Frank, with Brinkman, with anyone he could think of. And now check it out: he’s fucking
wasted
and he can’t stop!” He laughed shortly, looked up at the ceiling, back at me. “Ain’t that a kick in the ass?” He did what I’d done, pushed his cigarette into his beer can, watched it disappear.

He lifted his eyes to mine. “I didn’t kill him, Mr. S.”

By the window, Alice’s hand moved slowly to her mouth, and she started to cry.

Jimmy jumped from the chair, moved to Alice’s side. He folded an arm around her shoulders, spoke her name softly, but she pulled away. She wiped her eyes, leaving her face streaked with grime.

“I want to go home,” she said, voice quavering. She pulled together her mittens, hat, car keys. “You don’t need me now. I can go.”

“Baby—” Jimmy reached out a hand; she shrugged it off.

“Alice, wait,” I said.

“Why?” she asked unhappily. “Jimmy has you now. You’ll know what to do. I just want to go home.”

“It’s not him I’m thinking about. It’s you.”

She pulled on her mittens, stood thin-lipped, waiting.

“Remember I said I wasn’t the only person looking for Jimmy? One of the other people is Frank Grice. He offered me a thousand dollars.”

Jimmy’s eyebrows shot up. “What the hell for?”

“You.”

They were both silent, digesting that.

I went on, “If I found you, Alice, Grice can too. He’s not a nice man.”

She threw Jimmy a confused look, then back to me. “I don’t understand. What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t want you out there in that house by yourself. Is there someone you can stay with?”

“That’s ridiculous!” she snapped. “It’s my home. I’ve always lived there. I’m not afraid of those people.”

“That’s a mistake,” I said. “I am.”

That stopped her. “Well . . .” She frowned. “Laura and her husband live in Schoharie.”

“Good,” I said. “Go there tonight. And I don’t want you alone during the day. You know Grice by sight?”

She nodded.

“You even think you see his shadow, call the state troopers.” I described Arnold to her, and Otis and Ted. “And if anyone does ask you anything, do you think you can lie better than you did to me?”

She flushed crimson, and for the first time she smiled. “I think so.”

“Good,” I said again. “You haven’t seen Jimmy since he started cheating on you and you threw him out.” Jimmy
started
to protest; I ignored him. “You don’t know where he is, and you hope he rots in hell. Right? Tell them to go ask his new girlfriend. And tell them if they find him not to bother to tell you about it because you really couldn’t care. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” Her voice was clear again.

We looked at each other, the three of us, in the cold, dingy room. The kerosene lamp sputtered.

“If you need me,” I said, “you have the number; or try Antonelli’s.”

Alice opened the door, shut it silently, and was gone.

Jimmy watched at the window as the yellow Plymouth backed into position, headed down the stony road.

He sat down, nodded toward the door, gave me a shamefaced smile. “I messed that up, huh?”

“Big time,” I said. “Was it worth it?”

He shook his head.

I lit another Salem, tried to taste the tobacco through the mouth-numbing menthol. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s get to work.”

He grinned his old grin. “You’re the boss. What do we do now?”

“I ask, you answer. Who killed Wally Gould?”

“Oh, man, I
told
you, I wasn’t there!”

“No, you didn’t. You only said you didn’t kill him.”

“Well, I wasn’t. Happier?”

“Lose the attitude, Jimmy. This isn’t a game.”

His grin spread, and he reached for a cigarette. “Sure it is, Mr. S. It’s a big fucking game, and you’re my ace in the hole. You’re gonna pull it out for me, just like before.”

I pushed to my feet so fast the box I’d been sitting on fell over, clattered on the floor. I took two steps across the room, grabbed Jimmy’s parka, slammed him up against the wall. His cigarette dropped and his fists clenched but all he did was stare at me through eyes suddenly grown huge.

“What the fuck—!”

“Shut up, you stupid bastard!” I felt the blood rush hot to my face. “Now listen to me! There’s no game. A man’s dead: the game’s over. I don’t know if I can pull it out for you, but I know this: there’s only one way now. My way! You got that, Jimmy?”

He didn’t answer, didn’t move.

Our eyes locked in silence. In his eyes I saw the kid who, years ago, had skated out onto a frozen pond on a dare, triumphantly clowning at first, then hearing the ice crack.

I didn’t know what he saw in mine.

I spoke slowly, controlling my voice. “You’re going to give me everything you know.”

I released him ungently, took a step back, drew in a long breath. My Salem had scorched the table where I’d left it. I set the box on end again, sat down.

Jimmy still hadn’t moved.

“You never knocked me around before,” he said, angry and accusing but with a note of wonder. “My dad did, and Tony, but you never did.”

“Maybe I never thought it would do any good before.”

He pushed off from the wall, yanked his parka back on straight. He turned the chair around, straddled the seat,
arms
crossed along the back. I took another drag of the Salem, dropped it and crushed it.

“My way?” I asked.

Jimmy nodded.

I began: “Who killed Wally Gould?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”

“You don’t have any ideas?”

He shrugged.

“Why was he killed at the bar?”

“I don’t know, unless to make me look bad.”

“Who’d want to do that?”

He smiled a little. “Mostly, Wally.”

“All right, try this. Frank Grice tried to soften Tony up the other night. Why?”

Surprise stiffened his body. “Frank? Tony? What happened? Is Tony okay?”

I told him about the fight, Gould, and the gun. “Grice told Tony he had something on you, and it would cost him to keep it quiet. What does he have?”

“Oh, shit, Mr. S.! What the hell could he have? I’ve been clean, man,
months
now. You know, working. Allie could tell you . . .” He gestured toward the door, left his sentence unfinished.

“She did tell me.” I opened another beer; my mouth was as dry as the rock dust that coated everything in the shack. “She also told me that a couple of weeks ago you started fooling around with Ginny Sanderson.”

“Yeah” was all he gave me, and that reluctantly.

“Where’d you meet her?”

“At the Creekside.”

“Grice’s place?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I thought you told Alice you were through with those people.”

“I just stopped by for a beer, man. Just a beer, with the guys. They were all starting to say stuff. You know, about how I wasn’t hanging out no more . . .”