Tin City (21 page)

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Authors: David Housewright

Tags: #Mystery & Thriller

BOOK: Tin City
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“Funny, I was going to ask you the exact same question.”
“I’ll bite—what’s your business?”
“Frank.”
“Frank, huh?”
“Calls himself Frank Crosetti these days.”
“After the Yankee shortstop. Yeah, Frank always was a baseball fan. So what do you want him for?”
“He murdered a friend and raped another.”
“And you want payback for ’em.”
“Something like that.”
“Can’t say I blame you. I’d probably want to whack ’im, too. Only the boss won’t like it.”
“No?”
“Boss has somethin’ special planned for Frank.”
“Is that right?”
“After we chat with him a bit first.”
“They say Granata is the last of the godfathers.”
“Not to his face, they don’t.”
“Why is Granata looking for Frank?”
“It’s business.”
“What business?”
“Family
business.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I called dibs.”
“Dibs? What’s this dibs shit?”
“It means—”
“I know what it means. And you can forgetaboutit. Dibs.
We’ll
fucking take care of Frank.”
“Meaning the Bonanno family.”
“How come you know so much?”
“I pay attention.”
“You one of those nerd types always had his hand raised in school?”
“Pretty much.”
A deep sigh. “Whoever we are, McKenzie, you don’t have to worry about it. Not even a little bit. Russo’s gonna get what’s coming to him. I personally guarantee it.”
“Russo is his real name? Frank Russo?”
“You’re starting to annoy me, McKenzie.”
“We can’t have that, can we?”
“No, we can’t. What are you interfering for? Aren’t you listening to me? I promise, we’ll take care of Frank for ya. If it wasn’t for you, we’d probably have him already.”
“By kidnapping Sykora and doing what? Torturing him until he gives Frank up? What, are you kidding? An FBI agent?”
“A dirty FBI agent. Anyway, what do you give a fuck about Sykora?”
“I don’t. But I don’t want the girl hurt.”
“Neither do I.”
“I like the girl.”
“She is likable.”
“You need to come up with another plan.”
“Another plan to do what?”
“To find Frank Russo.”
“What, are people stupid out here? You get past the Hudson and people just go fucking brain dead? It’s none of your fucking business how we get Frank. You stay out of it and maybe you don’t get fucked up, too.”
“You have a bad attitude, do you know that?”
Ishmael thought that was funny.
“McKenzie, you’re just gonna fuck up everything, aren’t you?”
“I might.”
“Ahh, man. I was gonna cut you some slack cuz you have balls, but you’re just too big a pain in the ass to live. Go look outside your window.”
“My window?”
“Go ’head.”
I crossed the room, dragging the telephone with me. When I reached the window, I used the muzzle of the Beretta to push the drape out of the way. It had become dark, but not so dark that I couldn’t recognize Michael and Lawrence. They were standing in the rain in the parking lot just below my room, the Ford Ranger between them. Michael waved at me.
“Hey, McKenzie,” Ishmael said.
“I’m here.”
“You see ’em?”
“I see them.”
“One last time—you gonna back off or what?”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you to get Frank. It’s just that my dear old dad taught me, if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.”
“Uh-huh. Well, tell me this. Just out of curiosity. How are you going to get out of the room?”
The phone went dead before I could answer.
 
 
 
I set down the phone and checked my weapons. The Beretta had one round in the chamber and five in the magazine—I had wasted two shots on the Ford Ranger’s tires. The .25 Iver Johnson taped to my ankle carried seven rounds, but it wasn’t worth a damn beyond ten or fifteen feet. I had no idea what Michael and Lawrence were packing. I glanced at them through the window. They were engaged in an animated discussion. I guessed at the topic.
Do we wait for McKenzie to leave the room or do we go up there after him?
I decided to hold the high ground and make them come to me. To emphasize the point, I unlocked the motel room door and let it swing open. A moment later I was in the corner, the bed between me and the door. I kept the Beretta steady on the opening with both hands.
The wind had picked up and blew rain through the doorway. I waited. And waited. The carpet around the door became soaked, and a chill filled the room. My hands began to tremble—I blamed the cold—and my neck and shoulder muscles began to ache. I heard Michael’s voice.
“Hey, McKenzie,” he shouted. “You gotta be fucking kidding.”
They were going to wait on me.
Well, let them,
I decided.
I abandoned my position, crossed the room, and closed the door. Once again I pushed the drapes aside and glanced through the rainstreaked window. Once again Michael waved at me.
Fine,
I told myself.
Stand in the rain. What do I care?
I actually grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. I watched about thirty seconds of a rerun of
Cops
before reality sank in.
Are you nuts?
I turned off the TV and returned to the window. Night had fallen, yet I could still make out Michael and Lawrence. They were now sitting inside the Ford Ranger, but beyond that they didn’t appear to be going anywhere anytime soon.
You’re going to have to go out there.
I checked the load in the Beretta a second time. It hadn’t improved any. I tore the Iver Johnson off my ankle and dropped it into my pocket, ignoring the pain caused by the duct tape.
Let
’
s hope that’s all you feel.
I worked the calculations in my head, figuring I could open the door and run half the length of the second-floor landing before Michael and Lawrence opened their truck doors. I’d cover the second half, reaching the staircase just as they got out of the truck. I’d descend to the bottom of the staircase before they could cross the length of the parking lot. And I’d reach the Neon at just about the time they’d blow me to hell and gone, especially if they were carrying any kind of ordnance to speak of. ’Course, I might get them first because, as everyone knows, I’m a helluva shot. I once won a trophy.
Yeah, go ’head and bet your life on that. Maybe you should call Vegas and get odds.
I glanced at the telephone.
“Oh, for cryin’ out loud.”
Occam’s razor, named after the fourteenth-century philosopher William of Ockham—the simpler an explanation, the better. If it isn’t necessary to introduce complexities into an argument, don’t do it. Maybe if I had paid better attention in Philosophy 101, I’d have come to it sooner.
I picked up the phone and called the motel office.
“This is room 23B,” I told the man who answered.
“Yes, Mr. Cassidy.”
My last name was Cassidy,
I registered. I wondered if my first name was Hopalong.
“Listen, I don’t want to make trouble for your motel …”
“Yes, sir.”
“But there are these guys in a Ford Ranger pickup in your parking lot. I think they’re dealing drugs.”
“Why do you think that?”
“They’re just sitting there in the rain, and people keep driving up and getting out of their cars and talking to them and then driving away. I mean …”
“I understand. It’s nothing to worry about. This happens all the time because we’re located so close to the freeway. I’ll take care of it.”
“Okay.”
“I’d appreciate it, Mr. Cassidy, if you stay in your room for a little bit.”
“Sure.”
I stayed in my room for exactly six minutes. That’s how long it took for three Burnsville police cruisers to surround the Ford Ranger, blinding the truck’s occupants with their high beams. Guns were drawn and commands were shouted as I covered half the length of the second-floor landing. Michael and Lawrence were pulled from the cab, pushed up against the truck, and handcuffed by the time I walked the second half. A fourth car arrived, a K-9 unit, and a German shepherd held by a short leash began sniffing around the Ford Ranger as I descended the metal staircase. I was inside the Neon and starting the engine when a Burnsville police officer held up a Mac-10 and a Tec-9 with one hand and a baggie filled with what looked like marijuana with the other. The shepherd jumped at the grass like it was a chew toy.
People drove past the motel. Some slowed their vehicles when they
saw the flashing lights on top of the cruisers—a gawker’s slowdown, the traffic people call it—yet none stopped. I was willing to bet that they all lived quiet, normal lives and this was exciting to them. I admit I was a little excited myself as I drove across the gravel parking lot. I didn’t look at the cops and they didn’t look at me. A couple of left turns later, I was cruising down the entrance ramp to I-35. One of my great fears growing up was that one morning I’d discover that, like most people, I was leading a quiet, normal life, that I had become boring. So far I had managed to avoid that fate. Still …
Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band were singing “Hollywood Nights” on the Cities 97—
He was a midwestern boy on his own … He knew right then he was too far from home.
I had a feeling they were singing to me.
 
 
 
I had beers in the tiny refrigerator, and I drank two of them while I listened to the voice-activated tape recording. Someone had been moving around in Pen’s trailer. I heard the sound of her door opening and closing and then the tape went silent. I guessed Pen was taking a walk, and for a moment I feared for her safety. Then I dismissed my concerns. Ishmael’s co-conspirators had been incarcerated, and I doubted that he’d make a move on his own.
It had stopped raining. I decided to walk, too. Clear my head. Shake off Pen. Shake off the fear Lawrence and Michael had instilled in me less than an hour earlier. I got only as far as the coffeehouse up the street. Jellies and Beans. The girl who served me was small and overworked, with a face that had been nowhere and had done nothing.
Lucky her,
I thought. She held a large paper cup beneath a stainless steel spigot. There followed a hissing, gurgling, gulump. Voilà, a twentyounce café mocha.
“You want whipped cream? It’s better with whipped cream.”
“Absolutely.”
She smiled at me when I told her to keep the change, and I thought,
I almost said it at the restaurant.
I had nearly told Pen, “I love you.” A few more long kisses under the great oak tree and I might have. I had prided myself on not using those three words without meaning it. Prided myself on not being one of those guys. I could count on one hand the times I had actually told a woman “I love you” and the one time when I woulda, coulda, shoulda said it and didn’t. I wondered if this was going to be another one of those times as I sipped my coffee. I had not seen Pen for several hours, and so much had happened since then. Yet I was still thinking about her. I could still feel her presence.
I flashed on Nina. Had I told her that I loved her? I didn’t think so, but maybe I had. I couldn’t recall. I adored Nina, yet I hadn’t made any promises to her, nor had she made any to me. My impression: She didn’t want promises, she didn’t want a committment. She had been married. She had been in a long-term relationship. Both had ended ugly, and she was determined to avoid a three-peat. Which meant we were just friends, right? Which meant we were both free agents. Right? I decided not to think about it.
I liked the mocha so much I bought another and took it back to my room. Listening to the tape again, I heard Sykora arrive home. “Pen? Penelope?” He called her name like he was both surprised and disappointed that she hadn’t answered. Movement followed. I heard the sound of clinking glass, a refrigerator door opening, ice in a glass, liquid being poured. I wondered what Sykora was drinking. Whatever it was, he had two of them.
Later, lightheaded from the alcohol and caffeine, I thought I could make it work. I could live out my days as Jake Greene. Pen would leave Sykora and we would go away together. It would be a good life, an exemplary life. We’d be kind to each other. Loving. I’d find a way to reclaim my money and we’d buy a house, a cottage. She’d write
Grammy-winning songs and I’d—I’d do what? Go into business. Buy a Subway franchise and hire some kids to run it for me. Or a bookstore. Or a music store. Maybe I could just keep doing what I was doing now. Favors for friends. Only Jake had no friends. At least none that I knew of. No Bobby, no Shelby, no backyard neighbors to flirt with. No Nina. And Shelby’s girls. Who was going to teach them the value of junk food and frivolous behavior? And what about the ducks?

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