The Take (12 page)

Fortunately,
he had only one more thing to take care of, then he could go home and give
himself over to sweet sleep. He approached two well-dressed men standing over
by the sofa. Concern covered their dark-complected faces.

“You
can go in and see him now, Mr. Vega,” he said to the shorter of the two, “but
only for a couple of minutes. Don’t do anything to get him excited. No raising
your voice, no sudden moves. Mr. Salazar’s had a very rough day. He’s lucky to
be breathing at all.”

Vega
spoke. “How ‘bout it, doc? Is he gonna be all right? Is he gonna make it?”

“The
bullet tore open his stomach. He lost a lot of blood. It’s a good thing they
got him here quickly, or he’d have been DOA. We’ve kept him alive so far, but
he’s young and pretty strong, so he might make it. But there’s another problem.”

“Whatsat?”

“There
was an exit wound also. As the bullet left his body, it shattered his spinal
cord. If he survives, he’ll be paralyzed from the waist down. I’m afraid he’ll
never walk again.”

The two
men stood there open-mouthed. They hadn’t expected this. Chico’s graceful
presence, his lithe gait, even when he just walked into a room, had always
signaled his charisma, his power. And now...

“You
sure?” asked Vega, as if he hadn’t heard right. “He’s never gonna walk again?”

“Yes.
But he’s not to know that until we’re sure he’s going to live, all right?”

Glassy-eyed,
Vega nodded. They started toward the room, and the doctor cautioned them once
more about keeping calm.

“Only a
couple of minutes,” he called to their backs.

He
slumped into the sofa, trying to relax his tired body. He would wait for them
to come out. Then he could finally go home.

≈≈≈

The men gasped as they entered the dim, quiet room. Chico Salazar
looked terrible. His complexion was whiter than the sheet that covered him.
Life-giving liquids poured into him continuously from hovering IV bottles.
Breathing tubes were taped to his nostrils. His arms and legs were bound up in
plaster casts, suspended from aluminum contraptions to prevent movement against
his broken spine. And all around the bed, space-age machinery whirred,
monitoring his every bodily function.

Vega
leaned in. “Chico. Chico … it’s me,” he whispered in Spanish. “Rafael. Can you
hear me? Chico?”

The
grim presence of near-death in that room held the two men motionless for what seemed
like hours.

The doc was right
, thought Vega.
Chico might not make it. He might.
…

He
quivered.
Chico. You can’t, man. You can’t
die on me.

A few
seconds later, however, Chico Salazar summoned what little strength he had
left, as he lifted his heavy eyelids to half-staff. Vega breathed an inward
sigh of relief at this tiny sign of recognition.

“Chico,
it’s me, man. Tomás is here, too. Man, we’re with you all the way.”

Vega
reached down, taking Chico’s hand in his, then giving it a slight squeeze.
Chico squeezed back as best he could, while he took a stab at a smile. He didn’t
quite make it. Vega caught the attempt, however, and exhaled as he smiled
himself.

“That’s
it, man. It’s us! Man, you got the best doctors, the best equipment, the best
everything. You’re in Ben Taub. You know that’s the best hospital for this
kinda thing. The doc says you’re gonna make it.”

Chico
gave a little nod, as he tried hard for another smile. Not yet.

A
low-wattage bulb flickered a dim yellow from a small lamp on a dresser along
the far wall. The new day’s sunlight barely trickled in around the edges of
tightly-drawn curtains. Intimidating tubes and medical apparatus cast ribboned
shadows across the faces of the three men.

A
minute or so passed in silence before Vega said, “Who did it, Chico?”

The
opening of the door startled Vega as the doctor entered. “Time’s up. He needs
rest.”

“Just
another minute, doc.” Urgency clouded Vega’s voice.

“I’m
afraid not. He’s —”

Vega
stood up, fully five inches shorter than the doctor.
But when he faced the taller man
toe-to-toe, the fire in his black eyes more than compensated.

“I said
we’ll be through in a minute,” he snarled.

“All
right. But only a minute. He has to rest. His life depends on it.”

The
doctor left the room, as Vega turned back to hold Chico’s hand.

“Who
did this, Carnal?” he repeated.

With
great effort, Chico moved his lips. Vega hunched over the bed ever closer.
Finally, he heard something.

“What?
What? I can’t hear you, man. Say it again.”

He put
his ear close to Chico’s barely-moving mouth.

“T-t-two
guys.” Vega could scarcely make it out. Chico repeated his weak whisper. “Two ...
two guys. Dr … dressed … like cops. Tony …”

“What?”
demanded Vega. “What about Tony?”

“H-he
knew one of them. V-V-V...”

”What!
Say it!”

”V-Val.
Val.”

“Val?
Val who? Tell me, man! Tell me.”

But it
was no use. Chico had lost consciousness.

“What
did he say, Ese?” asked Tomás, who was out of earshot. “Did he tell you
anything?”

Vega
straightened up and smoothed out his expensive suit. “He said enough. Let’s get
to work.”

R
afael Vega
spent most of that morning on the telephone, assembling valuable scraps of
information. Eventually, he spoke with someone who would lead him to a ship
channel poolroom where Tony Chávez used to hang out.

≈≈≈

At the very moment Vega hung up from this call, Eddie Ryan was walking
out the door of Linda’s apartment in New Orleans’ French Quarter.

Eddie
had slept fitfully and he looked like it. Although his body ached from stress
and his head pounded from last night’s bourbon, his senses sharpened. He made
his way around the corner, then down Burgundy Street, glimpsing here and there
for unusual movement.

The
street looked normal. All traces of last night’s cold-blooded killing had been
wiped away. No cops around. The Ford had been impounded. A sunrise rain had
erased the chalk outline of Garner’s body as well as what was left of his life’s
blood. A cold front had raced through just after dawn, producing a stiff,
unfriendly wind. It was the kind of gray hostile morning where there was no
doubt the temperature would just keep dropping. Eddie shivered as he walked.

He
hurried the three blocks to the Post Office, where he waited impatiently in the
short line. Fear staked a claim on his insides. He felt conspicuous, as though
Salazar himself were about to leap out of the shadows, two guns blazing. By the
time he arrived at an open window,
he was positive he had been made. Shit, his picture was probably already up on
the wall, and people were probably whipping out their cell phones.

He
ordered up a thick mailing envelope, a sturdy nine-by-twelve, then addressed it
to Raymond Cannetta. He slipped another envelope containing forty thousand
dollars into it, along with an apologetic note dated the previous day. He
sealed it, stamped it, and off it went.

This
was Linda’s idea. Eddie had already pissed Raymond off by missing yesterday’s
payment. There was no telling what revenge he was cooking up. One thing for
sure, no loan shark just sat around, passively allowing this kind of account go
by the boards.

Maybe
he’ll never find you, Linda said, but if you don’t send him the cash, he’ll
never quit looking. And because he’s mob, then
they’ll
never quit. Pay him off to make sure he’s off your back. He
won’t tell Salazar, because he’s got no reason to once he gets the dough. If he
hears about you being knifed to death, it’ll look like you sent him the money
late yesterday and got your ass killed last night. At any rate, forty grand’s a
small price to pay to make him go away.

Eddie
arrived back at the apartment, greeted by the aroma of frying bacon,
accompanied by the sound of the sizzling strips in a skillet. Linda hovered
over it, also guiding eggs and toast through their motions. After last night,
though, Eddie wasn’t yet ready for food.

“Got
any coffee?” he asked, slouching at her furniture-warehouse kitchen table. The
black trash bag still lay there on the floor looking like yesterday’s garbage.

“Coming
right up.” She poured him some of the fresh brew into a thick white cup.

“Where’s
Felina?” he asked.

She
motioned toward the bedroom. “Where else?”

”C’mon,
Sis, why dontcha cut her a little slack. She’s really
okay.”

Linda
continued turning the bacon, flipping several pieces
at once.

Without
looking up, she said, “You still don’t understand, little brother. I know you
better than anybody ever has. Better’n anybody ever will. I know what’s going
on here.” She turned away from the bacon to face Eddie, then said, “She’s a
looker and she’s probably great pussy, and that’s why you’re taking up with
her. But let me tell you the real deal. This looker’s only looking out for
herself. I shit you not.”

Eddie
slowly shook his head, while the hot coffee slid down his insides, warming
everything it touched. Perfect stuff for this kind of morning.

“Nope.
I don’t think you got it right this time, Sis.”

Linda
went back to fiddling with the food.

“You’re
the one that’s got it wrong. You always do when it comes to this stuff.” She
faced him directly. “You remember that little North Side bitch you knocked up
that time? I told you all about her, right? Told you to ditch her, remember?
What’d that wind up costing me? About a grand? Twelve hundred?”

“Now
wait a second, she wasn’t —”

“And
what about that my-shit-don’t-stink college girl from Tanglewood? You thought
just because you were living over on Woodway Drive, all them classy women were
gonna
come running. All she
really wanted was a taste of the gambling world, a look at real live lowlifes.
Slumming around, that’s what she was doing. How much did you blow on her? Hm?
Don’t you know that she’s probably giving head right now to some rich-lawyer
boyfriend while they tool around River Oaks in his fucking Porsche.”

His
elbows on the table, Eddie dropped his head between his hands. “Linda, you
don’t understand. I just wanted to —”

She
wouldn’t let him finish. “I know what you wanted. You wanted gorgeous women
falling all over themselves to get to you. But you never could understand why
they always fucked you around in the end. If you’d’ve only listened to me, you
might’ve learned a thing or two.” She sat down at the table with him, putting
her hands on his cheeks, propping his head up level with hers. “Eddie, you’re
my brother. I love you. I really and truly love you. But don’t you see? You’re
an easy mark for these women, and as long as you let them, they’re gonna take
full advantage of you. And I will do
everything
in my power to prevent that.”

“But
Linda, Felina’s not really that way.” Linda was about to interrupt him again,
but he halted her. “No wait, listen. She warned me about Val. She showed me the
newspaper that said Salazar was still alive. It was her who suggested we leave
town. Her neck’s right out there with mine. If it wasn’t for her, I might be
dead right now. For real!”

“You
gotta trust me, little brother. You
know
I got your best interests at heart. You can only
hope
that she does. I can tell you right now that she’s thinkin’
about her own tight little ass first and foremost. I know women like her. They’re
born mistreaters. Goddam wrong
numbers, all of them. They wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire. Not if it
didn’t suit ‘em. But you know I’d never steer you wrong. Never.”

“No …
you wouldn’t,” Eddie said.

 
Linda’s voice ratcheted downward, as
their eyes met in complete understanding. “Oh, I know it’s not really your
fault, baby. You can’t help it, being the way you are. But when I see these
bitches trying to move in on you like that, I get real defensive for you. You’re
my blood, Eddie. I raised you. And it’s my job to watch over you as best I can.”

She
softly kissed his forehead, then patted his hands.
Their faces relaxed into somewhat-smiles,
their hands squeezed tight.

“I know
… I know,” he whispered, closing his eyes, and making the world go away.

B
y
mid-afternoon, Houston had turned cold, and the ship channel area looked more
miserable than ever. An ashen film seemed to have descended over everything. The
whitening sky suggested midwinter, not November. Foreign tankers steamed up the
channel from the Gulf seeking Texas crude, strange-colored flags flying from
their masts, flecks of rust showing at the waterline.