Gutshot Straight with Bonus Excerpt (8 page)

W
hen Shake woke up, he had no idea, for one unnerving moment, where he was. The room he was in was dark, quiet, cool. Prison was none of those, so at least he knew he wasn’t back there. His right wrist hurt like hell—he wasn’t sure why—and his mouth tasted as if something rank and furry had crawled inside, dragging with it something even ranker and furrier.

He tried to turn onto his side, but a stab of pain in his wrist put him back down fast. Then he remembered the handcuffs, the rusted U-bend pipe under the sink, the hotel room with the faux-vintage pirate treasure map framed above the bed.

He remembered Gina.

“Shit,” he said.

Very slowly he sat up, careful not to torque his aching wrist. He reached up and moved his free hand around the bathroom counter until he found the wall-mounted hair dryer and, just beneath, the light switch. He flicked the switch, and the flare of brilliant white light, bouncing mirror to mirror, was like a hammer hitting his little glass eyeballs.

He didn’t know what time it was. He pushed open the bathroom door with his foot. He didn’t have an angle on the hotel room’s window, but along the wall he could see alternating pickets of light and shadow. It was still light out at least, though not for much longer.

That meant it was probably . . . what? Five o’clock?

“Shit,” he said again.

He tested the cuff around his wrist. There was a little play, not much. He reached up and moved his free hand around the counter again until this time he found a trio of small plastic bottles. Shampoo, conditioner, body lotion. He deliberated, then selected the shampoo for its gelatinous quality. He opened the cap with his teeth, then squeezed the goo—it smelled like lavender—over his hand, his wrist, lubed it up under the cuff and all around. Then, careful not to pause to consider how much this was going to hurt, Shake yanked hard.

SHAKE SAT ON THE EDGE
of the bed, gently massaging his hand, the cordless room telephone cradled between his ear and shoulder. According to the clock radio on the nightstand, it was almost 5:30
P.M.
Even later than he’d thought.

He listened to the phone ringing.

Don’t answer
, he thought.
We can do this some other time
.

She answered.

“Yes?” Alexandra said.

“It’s me.”

“It is done? No problem?”

Shake considered. “Small problem.”

“Ah.”

“The girl got away,” Shake said. “With the briefcase.”

There was a pause.

“Just curious, Shake,” Alexandra said lightly. “What in this situation would you call ‘big’ problem?”

Shake winced and went into the bathroom to run cold water over his hand.

“I’ll get the girl back. Or the briefcase. Both.”

“You just a need a little time,” Alexandra said.

“Yes.”

“Fine.”

Fine. Shake winced again. Not because of his hand this time. Because this was going even more badly than he’d expected, and he’d expected it to go pretty badly. He waited for her to ask the question.

“Where are you staying, by the way?” Alexandra said. “In case I need to reach you?”

Shake pictured the hotel across the street: gondolas, Doge’s Palace.

“I’m at the Venetian Hotel,” Shake said. “Room 1512.”

“I call you tomorrow,” Alexandra said. “Get some rest, then find the girl and the briefcase. Both. Yes?”

“Yes. Both.”

Shake clicked off the phone, turned off the cold water, and noticed the soap dish for the first time. He dried his aching wrist and sighed. In the perfect center of the soap dish, alongside a chocolate turndown mint wrapped in foil, Gina had left the small silver handcuff key for him.

A
lexandra hung up the phone and took a sip of tea. She did not indulge the desire—fleeting, but powerful—to sigh.

There was no place for melancholy in the heart of a
pakhan
. The heart of a
pakhan
was a small, smooth, round stone. If this stone occasionally appeared to glisten as though wet from the rains or the river, that was merely a trick of light and perspective, a testament to the beauty of the stone, and nothing more.

Alexandra took another sip of tea and sighed, okay, a small sigh, sure. Did it not make her an even more formidable
pakhan
, that she could feel and yet still see the world with clear eyes? That she could act without hesitation or doubt on what she saw and ignore what she felt? A wet stone was still a stone, after all.

She had affection still for Shake, yes, but it was no more than that. She had given him this little errand because he had always been loyal. Because he had always been reliable. It was just good business.

Was it just good business, she asked herself, that she went personally to send Shake on this little errand? When she just as easily could have sent Dikran or someone else?

Shut up, please
, she told herself back.

The deputy attorney general came padding out of the bathroom in a robe, smiling shyly, stupidly.

Alexandra looked at him, then looked away and thought,
Oh, Shake, Shake, Shake, Shake. Why do you put me in such a position? Why do you force me to turn my heart to stone and make such an unhappy decision?

Then she picked the phone back up. It was suddenly heavy, this small object, as if it—or she—had been enchanted by a witch in a fairy tale. Alexandra needed all her strength, all her will, just to raise the phone to her ear. But she did.

DIKRAN TOLD THE HOUSE MOTHER
to bring him another bitch—not a Chinese this time.

“She Thai.”

“Do I care?”

“You want a Ukrainian?”

“Yes. Bring a Ukrainian. Now!”

Dikran found the remote under the pillow and turned on the TV. The Chinese bitch on the bed next to him snored. Chinese were too small. No stamina. Ukrainian girls were sturdier.

The Little Soldier in his lap lay heavy on his thigh. Purple, sticky, and sore, but already starting to stiffen again. Dikran wished only to watch ESPN and go to sleep. But the Little Soldier taunted him.

Dikran glared angrily at the testosterone patch on his arm. He did not blame the Little Soldier for these troubles of his. He blamed this stupid patch and the stupid fucking doctor who said wear it or maybe your heart collapse
floosh
like a smashed football.

An irony was that Dikran much preferred Chinese girls. Their secret eyes and white smiles. But with the testosterone patch, Chinese girls were not sturdy enough for the Little Soldier. Had not the stamina.

On TV on the field sideline was babbling a girl with orange hair and tits spilling out. The Little Soldier stirred. Like the taut string of a violin plucked by a finger. Twang, twang. Fuck! What business, Dikran thought angrily, had a woman on ESPN on the sideline with tits spilling out every which way? Dikran wanted to sleep, but he was too angry.

“Where the fuck the Ukrainian bitch!” he hollered through the wall. He pounded the wall to punctuate each word, twice for the exclamation point.

Stupid fucking doctor. Dikran thought he would like to kill that fucker. Roll a testosterone patch very, very tight, it could be done, and stick it up his—

The phone rang. Dikran answered.

“Okay,” she said.

“Where is the ass-lick?”

“He said he was at the Venetian. Room 1512.”

“Good. I will go there.”

She clucked impatiently at him. “He’s not at the Venetian, Dikran.”

“I will check anyway. I will find him.”

“Make it quick. You understand? I don’t want a big mess.”

Dikran realized he was grinning, the first time in a long time—he was feeling anger, but the joy sort.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I put down plastic and clean up afterward.”

S
hake took a quick shower, then ate a can of almonds from the mini-bar. When he opened the door to the hotel room and stepped into the hallway, he glanced down and saw that Gina had left the
PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB/POR FAVOR, NO MOLESTAR
card inserted in the key slot. Shake removed it and smiled. Then he heard the
click
of a hammer cocked back.

A .45 automatic, if he was not mistaken.

Cold metal touched the nape of his neck.

“Back inside,” the voice behind him said.

Shake stepped back inside. Dick Moby’s bagman eased the door shut behind them.

“That was fast,” Shake said.

“On the bed.”

“Jasper, right?”

“That’s right. Sit.”

Shake obeyed. “How’d you find me?”

A shrug. “What I do.”

“No, really,” Shake said. “That fast? C’mon, I’m curious.”

Shake saw an embarrassed smile flicker across Jasper’s round, sleepy-eyed face.

“Got lucky,” he said. “The waitress at the restaurant downstairs.”

Shake thought for a second. The pirate waitress. “She recognized the girl.”

Jasper nodded. “She knew that Mr. Moby was looking for her. He put the word out last week. So she gave me a call.”

“For the record, you remember, Jasper,” Shake said, “I really didn’t want to have to coldcock you with that phone book, back at the motel.”

“I remember.”

“The girl’s long gone.”

“Figured that,” Jasper said.

“With the briefcase. You know her?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“She roofed me. My head feels like a piñata. After the party.”

Jasper thought for a second, then reached into his pocket and tossed Shake a pill bottle. Vicodin. Shake opened the bottle and swallowed a couple.

“Thanks.”

“She a serious piece of work,” Jasper said.

“Cute, though, don’t you think?”

“That what you want to talk about right now?”

“Is her real name Gina?” Shake asked.

“Gina Clement,” Jasper said.

“What is she? A stripper?”

“Yeah. She ripped off Mr. Moby.”

“She told me she was a Mormon housewife.”

Jasper smiled again. “You believe her?”

“I think I probably would have helped her out either way,” Shake said, “tell you the truth.”

Jasper didn’t have anything to say about that. He stood between Shake and the door, far enough away that Shake couldn’t make a grab for the gun, close enough to blow a hole in him, sleepy eyes closed, if Shake tried.

“You gonna pop me?” Shake asked.

“After you tell me where she is.”

Shake had to appreciate the guy’s candor, but it didn’t make him feel any better about the situation he was in.

“You think I know?”

“Not really.”

Shake thought he recognized something familiar about Jasper’s accent. He took a stab.

“Jasper, you’re from New Orleans?”

“That’s right.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Lower Ninth. Before it went underwater.”

“Gentilly,” Shake said. “I heard it got hit hard, too, though not like the Ninth.”

“Fats Domino.”

“Right. His house was three blocks from mine. I used to get my hair cut at a little place in the Ninth. You remember the baseball player Will Clark, played for the Giants, who was from New Orleans?”

Jasper nodded. “Barber had a picture of him right above the sink.”

“Small world,” Shake said.

“Seem that way sometimes,” Jasper said, “but it really ain’t.”

Shake sensed that Jasper’s capacity for patience was impressive but not limitless.

“Let me ask you something, Jasper.”

“Go ahead.”

“Are you under orders to pop me, or is that your own initiative?”

“My . . . what?”

“The Whale doesn’t know anything’s gone sideways yet, does he?”

Jasper didn’t answer. Apparently there was a limit to his capacity for candor, too.

“That’s why you have to find the girl and the briefcase with those stamps fast,” Shake went on. “Before he finds out.” Shake gathered himself for the closing argument. “So that makes the two of us, doesn’t it, just two guys punching the clock and taking home a paycheck. We’re in the same boat here.”

Jasper looked down at the .45 in his hand.

“You’ve got the gun, I realize,” Shake said.

“Different boat,” Jasper agreed.

“Yeah. But I know you don’t want to pop me. It’s a pain in the ass for you, all the way around.”

“Nothing personal.”

“We could work together to find her. You help me, I help you.”

“How you gonna help me?” Jasper asked mildly.

Shake worked that one around for a second. He had a few answers. None plausible. None persuasive.

“You don’t know where she is?” Jasper said.

“No.”

“Stand up,” Jasper said.

“Jasper,” Shake said, “if you just—”

There was a knock on the door. Shake and Jasper turned.

“Housekeeping!” a woman’s voice called.

Shake heard the
snick
of a key card.

“Get it,” Jasper told him. The door started to open, and Jasper slipped behind it, surprisingly nimble for a guy his size. Shake caught the door and stopped it halfway, decided Jasper must have been a defensive end, not an offensive tackle.

The Latina housekeeper peered around the blocked door and up at him.

“We’re all set here,” Shake said.

She seemed dubious and mildly disgusted. “You no want some towels?”

“No thanks. Everything’s just
bueno
.”

She shook her head and wheeled her cart away. Shake started to close the door, then slammed it back wide, fully open, nailing Jasper in the face. The .45 tumbled to the carpet. Shake grabbed it and closed the door.

Jasper crouched, dazed, and held his bloody nose.

“Damn,” he said.

Shake checked to make sure a round was chambered, then pointed the .45 at Jasper. He motioned toward the bathroom.

“In there,” he said.

JASPER SAT ON THE FLOOR
by the sink, and Shake handcuffed him to the U-bend pipe beneath it. Then he handed Jasper a towel for his nose and the bottle of Vicodin.

“Better watch out,” Jasper said.

“Don’t hold a grudge, Jasper. Like you said, nothing personal.”

Jasper shook his head. “Not me you better watch out for.”

“The Whale?” Shake asked.

“The girl,” Jasper said.