Drawing Dead (11 page)

It was not a good feeling.

Butch staggered across the sidewalk, leaned up against a well-traveled Chevy Caprice. Slid to the sidewalk.

Bruno turned to me. Flexed his shoulders, up, down, up, down. Pursed his lips. Started towards me.

This was ridiculous. He must have outweighed me by fifty pounds. Eighty, if you just counted muscle.

I had to have a plan.

Ah, I thought. A plan.

I pulled out the Mauser.

I pointed it at his head.

I pictured Bruno as a piece of cardboard, suspended on a chain.

It was a plan.

It worked.

He got the point.

He stopped.

He put his hands up, movie-style. Put the Bruno Grin on his face.

Hey, Rick, he said. You can’t be serious.

As serious as you were five seconds ago.

Okay. You got me. But it was just an argument, right? Now I seen the error of my ways, okay? Put the thing down.

The error of your ways? Where the fuck you learn that one, Bruno? Now you’re the one kidding me. This here’s the equalizer, I said, waving the Mauser in his face.

Come on. You’re not going to use that thing. You don’t got it in you.

The Big Bruno Bluff. He couldn’t help himself.

On the other hand, he was right. I wasn’t about to shoot somebody. Even somebody as big, menacing and irritating as Bruno.

It was just about then that the gun went off.

I could see Bruno’s mouth move. I couldn’t hear what he said. My ears were ringing. I was stumbling backwards. I saw him go down on his right knee, lean sideways.

He rolled on his side, clutching at his right shoulder.

You sonofabitch, he said.

Oh shit, I said to myself.

To him, I said: Don’t worry about it. It’s just something I got in me.

I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of knowing it was an accident.

Funny guy, he groaned.

I do my best, I said.

So now what’re you gonna do? You’re fucked, you know. Either way, you’re fucked. You kill me, you’re a murderer. You don’t, you’re dead.

Clearly you’ve watched all the right movies. I’m thinking maybe I should hire you for my outfit.

Fuck you, Redman.

Fuck you, too, Bruno.

I placed the gun barrel against his forehead. I seriously thought about pulling the trigger. Murder, sure. But not most foul. Most … pleasant, really. Most justifiable.

But to get a jury to buy that? A different story.

I must be the first prospective murderer, I told myself, to actually think about the consequences of his act.

I stepped back.

I kicked him in the shoulder. The one with the bullet in it.

He screamed.

Pardon me? I said. I didn’t quite hear you.

I kicked him again.

I was starting to enjoy it.

A bit too much.

This wasn’t me. I was in some kind of fugue state. This was some queer, corrupted part of me, gnarled and greased and cramped from decades in the tar pits, let out for a night, a moment. See what I can do? it was saying to the world.

Jesus Christ, I thought. What the fuck am I doing?

The fuck are you doing? said a voice behind me.

I turned to face my interrogator. I was bizarrely calm. Shock, I guess it was. They say it does weird things to you.

Well, let’s see, Butch, I said, as though discussing the choice of drapes for the living room. I’ve committed a criminal act, punishable by up to twenty-five years in prison, last I heard. Now, I probably have a pretty good defense of self-defense, what with you as a witness. But with a jury, you never know. And now that I think of it, I’ve probably ruined your career in the NYPD. Though that might not be such a bad
thing, for any number of reasons. Of course, I’ve also sent a message to Bruno, and the rest of that crowd, that maybe I’m not a guy to fuck with. All in all, it might be a positive.

Rick, you’re an asshole. Let’s get the fuck out of here.

It was hard to argue with the sentiment.

I heard the sound of five cylinders. A very distinctive rattle. Five-eighths of a V-8. A fraction only possible in certain parts of the outer boroughs. A gypsy cab turned the corner. A Lincoln with a touch of age on it. A limping front bumper, a dragging rear. Gray with gray spots, where the rust holes were spray-painted over. The driver’s-side window held together with masking tape. A hand-lettered cardboard sign taped on the inside of the windshield:
Bernie’s Limo Service
.

Perfect.

I flagged it down.

Bruno was back on the sidewalk. Trying to get himself upright against the black wrought iron fence.

Fuck, he moaned softly. Why’d you have to do that?

I don’t know, I said. Manifest destiny. Something like that.

Butch was having some problems making his legs work. I hooked him by the armpits, dragged him in the general direction of the cab. I hauled him up, pushed and shoved. He collapsed into the back seat. I got into the front. The driver had to move his copy of the
Post
, his thermos of coffee and several cartons of what looked to be Egyptian cigarettes.

Sorry, I said.

Where you going? he said.

Manhattan.

Where Manhattan? he asked in an unplaceable accent. Romanian, maybe.

Just get the fuck moving, I said.

He gave me a Look. The Look started out as a get-the-fuck-outta-my-cab-you-creep Look, but soon gave way to a shit-this-guy-looks-seriously-deranged-I-better-listen-to-him Look.

I noticed that I still had the Mauser in my hand.

Ah, I said to myself. Yes. The thing could come in handy.

Get you home faster. All sorts of things.

The cab smelled of gun exhaust and fear.

Or maybe that was me.

In any case, it got us home fast.

T
HE GASH OVER MY LEFT EYE WAS OOZING
. Somebody was playing marimbas in the back of my skull. Or steel drums. Some thing percussive. I recognized the rhythm, but not the tune. I was still wearing my clothes from the previous night. I suspected they were rank, but since my nose was completely blocked with snot and blood, I couldn’t tell. I stumbled to the shower, stripped off the rags and threw them in a corner. I eased into the shower. The water was hot. Not pleasant. But necessary.

After a year or two I turned off the water. I stood for a while, fearful of the frigid air outside the frosted glass. This turned out to be a mistake. The immobility, that is. Thoughts intruded. Memories. Thoughts and memories of the night before. Shit. Had I really shot somebody? Why did I do that? Couldn’t I get in trouble for such a thing?

Yes, I answered myself. Serious trouble. Trouble of all kinds. Not just the legal kind. Though that was bad enough.

What the hell was I going to do?

I didn’t think Sheila would be much help. And I didn’t have a lawyer. Other than myself. And I knew what they said about a lawyer who represents himself. Fool for a client and all that.

I called Butch. Maybe, I thought, he’d tell me the whole thing never happened.

He didn’t pick up. I left a message. Put down the phone.

I did the only thing left to me.

I panicked.

I threw on some unobtrusive clothes. I dredged an old pair of prescription sunglasses out of the far reaches of a drawer. I put on a pair of fast sneakers. The holster. The Mauser. The leather jacket.

I saw myself in the mirror. I looked like a bit player in a bad Harvey Keitel movie.

What the hell was I doing? Where was I going to run?

I sat back down on the bed.

The phone rang.

Tell me it isn’t true, Butch said.

What isn’t true?

You didn’t really shoot Bruno last night, did you?

I have some kind of recollection to that effect.

Damn. So do I. Shit.

My thought exactly.

Okay. Stay there. I have to make some calls.

I’m not going anywhere, I said.

Good, he replied, and hung up.

I made some coffee. Read the
Times
. Stuff was happening, apparently. There was conflict. Things were beginning, ending. Some things were good, some bad. More bad than good, it seemed.

The phone rang.

The good news is, it’s not official, he said.

What does that mean?

He didn’t report it.

No cops? No jail?

So far.

Jesus. That’s a weight off.

I put the phone on speaker, put it on the counter. I was out of coffee. I figured I’d just pump some hot water through the used grounds. They spilled into the water container. I tried to fix it. Coffee grounds got all over the counter. I left them there. I’d get a cleaning lady. Tomorrow. Sure. Melissa used to take care of that stuff. Sometimes. I’d have to learn to do it myself. I could still learn stuff. Hell, I’d learned how to shoot a gun.

Yeah, well, said Butch. The bad news is, the word is all over. You’re not welcome at the game. Any game, actually.

Ah, shit.

Could be worse, man. Could be worse.

Yeah, I know. Of course. Of course. Listen, can you come over? We got to figure out what to do now.

About what? What’s done is done. We let it blow over. You’ll be back in spades in no time.

Well, money, for one thing. I blew the whole Vegas bankroll.

You what?

Yeah. Not only that, I owe Evgeny twenty grand.

You’re not fucking serious.

Yeah. Dead serious, I’d say.

Evgeny’s not a guy you want to owe money to.

Don’t I know it. Anyway, we got to figure out what to do.

What’s with the ‘we’?

Come on, Butch.

I looked in the fridge. Maybe there’d be some cold coffee in there. Strangely enough, there wasn’t.

All right, said Butch. I’ll be over. After I take care of some stuff.

I never put cold coffee in the fridge, I remembered. Or hot coffee, for that matter. But who knew? Stranger things had been found in my fridge.

I’m sure the stuff appreciates your concern, I said.

What stuff? What the fuck are you talking about?

The stuff you’re going to take care of.

Oh. Yeah. That stuff. You can count on that.

I tried making the coffee again. This time I half succeeded. It was still full of grounds. But didn’t the Turks drink it that way? I drank some down. It was revolting. How did those Turks do it? And anyway, all it did was make me anxious.

More anxious.

I found a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Mirabile dictu. It calmed me down. A bit.

The doorbell rang. It was Brendan. He was all smiles. All our problems were solved, he said.

You’ve got to be kidding, I said. I just shot a guy.

It’s okay, he said. More than okay.

He’d been hanging with the Russkies all night, he said. They hadn’t been offended by my assault on Bruno. Quite the contrary. They couldn’t stand the meatball either. They admired me for it. I was the kind of guy they could do business with.

Come on, Brendan, I said. You starting on that again?

What do you mean?

You can’t do business with those guys. They do business with you.

There’s a lot of money involved.

Yes, Brendan. I would imagine there is. Problem is, it’s not for us. It’s for them. You work for them, you get a wage. It’s not a charitable organization. Dedicated to the care and feeding of washed-up lawyers. And carpenter-actors.

Not this deal.

I saw that Brendan was wearing something on his wrist. Something silver, expensive-looking. Looked to have Maltese crosses on it.

The hell is that? I asked.

It’s a bracelet. You like it?

I don’t really know. Where’d you get it?

At a place.

Brendan, Brendan. They’re setting you up. Or me. Using you to set me up.

Why would they want to do that?

How the hell would I know? Because I pissed off Evgeny. For the fun of it. Because they figure I have more money than I actually do. Because they don’t like my teeth.

You have nice teeth.

I better. They cost thirty thousand bucks.

You’re kidding me.

I’m not. But let’s not go there. I’m still making the payments.

There you go. You need the money.

No, I don’t.

But I did need the money.

Damn it.

Give me a minute, I said to Brendan.

I went to the bedroom. Took off the jacket, the holster. Lay down on the bed. Tried to be rational. What the fuck to do? Make priorities. Well, shit. There was only one: getting the twenty grand back to Evgeny. This was a guy you paid back quick. You didn’t, all sorts of nasty shit happened. But short of a lucky run of cards, the only cash I could get my hands on was … Louise Chandler’s retainer.

A nice coincidence, I suddenly thought. Hunh. Twenty grand. Were the Gods telling me something? Well, maybe it wasn’t the Gods, exactly … I took a slug off the Jack Daniel’s that I’d wisely thought to bring with me to the bedroom. Yes. Had to be. And anyway, what choice did I have? Hey, I’d use the Chandler money. Stick to easy games till I got it back. Refill the bank account. She wouldn’t know the difference.

Jesus. Was I really thinking this? How low had I fallen? I wasn’t welcome in any game in town. Wasn’t that what Butch had said? How bad could this get?

Before I could give myself the depressing answer to that question, the doorbell rang. Brendan went to get it.

I closed my eyes. Spare me, I said to myself. Spare me anything but sleep.

Yo, Rick, called out Butch’s baritone. Get the fuck down here.

Damn, I thought. Had to do it. Wouldn’t be polite to leave the guests alone.

I dragged myself downstairs. Butch and Brendan were in the kitchen. They were smiling.

What’s with all the goddamn cheer? I said.

Why not? Butch asked.

Well, I said, let’s start with the basics. I almost killed a guy last night …

Shut up, Rick. We know.

Have some pretzels, I said.

Thanks, man, said Butch. That’s more like it.

We munched the stale pretzels from a plastic bag. I passed around the Jack Daniel’s. There wasn’t much left. I rummaged around for something else. Found an ancient fifth of Cutty Sark. It would have to do.