The Charlie Parker Collection 2

by John Connolly

  They’d eaten at one of the buffets, avoiding, as always, the goat curry that seemed to be a staple of the cuisine in this part of the city. ‘You ever even seen a goat?’ Arno had once asked Willie, and he had to admit that he had not, or certainly not in Queens. He figured that any goat that found itself wandering around 74th Street wasn’t going to live for very long anyway, given the clear demand for dishes of which it was the main ingredient. Instead they stuck to the chicken, loading up on rice and naan bread. It was Arno who had converted Willie to the joys of Indian food, goat apart, and he had found that, once you stayed away from the hot stuff and concentrated on the bread and rice, it provided pretty good soakage after a night on the tiles.

  Now they were back at the auto shop, and Willie was counting down the minutes until they could close up and go home. Softly, he cursed the Brooklyn Brewery and all of its works.

  ‘A bad workman blames his tools,’ said Arno.

  ‘What?’ Willie hadn’t been in the mood for Arno all day. The little Swede or Dane or whatever the hell he was had no right to be looking so spruce. After all, they’d finished the night propping up the bar together, talking about old times and departed friends. Some of those friends were even human, although most of them had four wheels and V8 engines. Arno had no qualms about drinking liquor. His only stipulation was that it had to be clear, so it was always gin or vodka for him, and Arno had matched Willie with a double vodka tonic for every beer. Yet here he was, bright and cheerful at the end of a grim day for Willie, listening in on his private conversations with the gods of brewing. Arno never seemed to get a hangover. It had to be something to do with his metabolism. He just burned it off.

  Today, Willie hated Arno.

  ‘It’s not the brewery’s fault,’ continued Arno. ‘Nobody made you drink all that beer.’

  ‘You made me drink all that beer,’ Willie pointed out. ‘I wanted to go home.’

  ‘No, you just thought you wanted to go home. You really wanted to keep celebrating. With me,’ he added, grinning like an idiot.

  ‘I see you every day,’ said Willie. ‘I even see you Sundays at church. You haunt me. You’re like the ghost, and I’m Mrs Muir, except she ended up liking the ghost.’

  He considered his analogy and decided there was something suspect about it, but he was too weary to withdraw it. ‘Why the hell did I want to celebrate with you anyway?’

  ‘Because I’m your best friend.’

  ‘Don’t say that. I’ll just despair.’

  ‘You got a better friend than me?’

  ‘No. I don’t know. Listen, you’re just supposed to work for me, and even that’s doubtful.’

  ‘I know you don’t mean that.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Not listening.’

  ‘Dammit, I’m serious.’

  ‘Tra-la-la.’ Arno disappeared into the little storage room to the left of the main work area, trilling at the top of his voice, a finger lodged firmly in each ear. Willie considered throwing a wheel nut at him, and then decided against it. It would require too much effort, and anyway, he didn’t trust his own aim today. He might miss Arno and hit something valuable.

  He sat down on a crate, propped his elbows on his thighs, then rested his head in his hands and closed his eyes. It was almost eight, and dark outside. They always worked until eight on Thursdays, but in a few minutes they could safely lock up and call it a night. He would get Arno to take in the signs advertising that you could get your brakes fixed for $49.99 and your oil changed for $14.99. Then he would watch TV for a while at home before crawling into bed.

  He wondered later if he had fallen asleep for a few moments right there and then, because when he opened his eyes there were two men standing in front of him. He made them for out-of-towners immediately. He could almost smell the cow turds. Both were of medium height, the older of the two probably in his early forties, with dark hair that hung untidily past his collar, and sideburns that extended out in sharp points at the end to join a goatee, as though all of his hair, head and facial both, was part of a single arrangement that could be taken off at night and draped over a mannequin’s skull. He wore a brown, yellow, and green golf shirt under a brown corduroy jacket, and brown jeans over cheap imitation Timberlands.

  Willie hated golf shirts almost as much as he hated golfers. Whenever anyone came into the shop dressed for the course, or with clubs in the back of the car, Willie would lie and tell them he was too busy to be of service. There might have been golfers who weren’t assholes, but Willie hadn’t met enough of them to be able to give the whole sorry species the benefit of the doubt. Also, in his experience, the more expensive the car a golfer drove, the bigger the asshole he was. His intense dislike of golfers extended to the entire golfing wardrobe, and that went double for phlegm-colored golf shirts and anyone sorry enough to wear one either in private or in public, and most particularly in Willie Brew’s place of business when he was nursing a hangover.

  The second man was broader than the first, and, despite the moderate chill in the air, was dressed only in a faded denim jacket over a T-shirt and distressed jeans. He was chewing gum, and wore the kind of shit-eating grin that suggested here, in the flesh, was not only a jerk, but the kind of jerk who considered it a poor day indeed that didn’t involve inflicting a little pain and misery on another human being.

  And this was the thing: they were both looking at Willie like he was already dead.

  Willie knew who they were. He knew that, not far from the front entrance to his beloved auto shop, there would be a blue Chevy Malibu parked, ready to whisk these men back to wherever they had come from as soon as their work here was done. He should have said something the first time he saw the car. Now it was too late.

  Willie stood. He still had a lug wrench in his right hand.

  ‘We’re closed, fellas,’ said Willie.

  But these men were not here about a car, and anything that Willie said to the contrary was just delaying the inevitable, a pretense for which they would have no patience. They were here on business, and Willie tried to figure out if there was anyone he had bugged so much that they’d want to sic two guys like this on him. He decided that he couldn’t find a name. There was nobody who hated him this much. This wasn’t about him. A message was being sent, and it would be sent through Willie, through the breaking of his bones and the ending of his life.

  Then the gum chewer produced a gun from beneath his jacket. He didn’t even point it at Willie, just let it dangle by his side like it was the most natural thing in the world to walk into a man’s premises and prepare to kill him. He kept his thumb and forefinger in position while he stretched the remaining fingers, an athlete giving his muscles a final loosening before stepping into the blocks.

  ‘Drop the wrench,’ said his goateed buddy.

  Willie did. It made a loud clang as it hit the concrete floor.

  ‘You don’t look so good,’ said Goatee. Willie tried to place the accent, but couldn’t. There might have been some Canadian in there someplace. Not that it mattered, not now.

  ‘I had a rough night.’

  ‘Well, I hate to say it, but your day ain’t about to get much better.’

  Goatee punched Willie hard. Willie didn’t have a chance to prepare for the blow. It hit him full in the center of the face and broke his nose. Willie went down on his knees, his hands already raised to catch the first flow of blood. He heard the second man snicker, then move off. The door to the storage area opened. Willie peered through his fingers, and saw the gum chewer enter the room, his gun raised now. For once in his life, Willie prayed, don’t let Arno do anything dumb.

  Goatee now had his own gun in his hand.

  ‘You know,’ he continued, ‘you ought to be more particu lar about who you go into business with. I mean, I know men who keep company with faggots. I don’t respect ’em, and I can’t say that I much like what they do together, but it happens. Then, Lord knows, I’ve known men to keep company with killers. You might sa
y that I am one of those men, and my buddy back there is as well. We’re both like that, in a way: we kill people, and we keep each other company while we do it. But you, you’re covering all the bases at once. Hanging out with fag killers: that’s quite something. Guess you ought not to be surprised at what comes next.’

  He pointed the gun at Willie’s head, and Willie closed his eyes. He heard a shot, and grimaced, but the sound hadn’t come from up close. Instead, it echoed inside the storage room. The noise distracted Goatee for an instant. His head turned, and in that moment Willie was on him. He picked up the wrench as he came, raising it almost to his shoulder and then bringing it down sharply just above the man’s gun hand. He thought that he felt a bone snap, and then the gun was on the floor and Willie’s weight was forcing the other man back against the trunk of the red Olds on which Arno had been working. Even with one hand injured, Goatee was still fast. His left hand lashed out, catching Willie’s busted nose and sending fresh daggers of pain through his face, blinding him for an instant. Willie kicked with his right foot, and the steel toe cap of his work boot connected with a thigh, deadening it so that his opponent stumbled as he stretched to reach his gun. The action caused Willie to lose his own balance, and he fell. He managed to knock the gun away with the side of his foot, sending it skidding into the shadows of the garage, just as he heard a second shot and glass breaking. He tried to make himself smaller, to find some cover, and when he looked up the back window of the Olds had shattered and Goatee was moving away quickly, still limping on his dead leg. There was a third shot, and Goatee’s right shoulder was pushed forward, even as he slipped out of the garage door and disappeared into the night, his departure hastened by a final shot that struck the brickwork nearby.

  Arno was standing at the entrance to the storage room, a gun in his hand. The gun wasn’t very steady, and looked too big for Arno to hold. Arno didn’t like guns and, as far as Willie knew, had never fired one before. It was a wonder that he’d managed to hit his target at all. Arno moved cautiously toward the garage door. There was the sound of a car starting up, then driving away.

  Willie struggled to his feet. ‘What happened to the other fella?’ he asked.

  ‘I hit him with a hammer,’ said Arno. He was very pale. ‘His gun went off when he fell. You okay?’

  Willie nodded. His nose hurt like damnation, but he was alive. His hands were shaking, and now he felt sure that he was going to vomit. He reached out and gently removed the gun from Arno’s hand, putting the safety on as he did so.

  ‘What was all that about?’ asked Arno.

  ‘I need to make a call,’ said Willie. ‘Find some wire, and tie up the guy in the storage room.’

  Arno didn’t move. ‘I don’t think we’re gonna have to do that, boss,’ he said.

  Willie looked at him. ‘Jesus, how hard did you hit him?’

  ‘It was a hammer. How hard do you think?’

  Willie shook his head, although he wasn’t sure whether in despair or admiration.

  ‘I’m working with fucking Rambo now,’ he said. ‘I don’t even know how you managed to wing that other guy.’

  ‘I was aiming for his feet,’ said Willie.

  ‘What were you trying to do, make him dance? Aiming for his feet. Jesus. Lock the doors.’

  Arno did as he was told. Willie went into his office and picked up the phone. He knew by heart the number that he dialed.

  The call transferred to a machine. Then he tried the service, and the woman named Amy took his number and said that she’d pass on the message. Finally, he tried the cell, using this week’s number, to be utilized only in the gravest of emergencies, but a voice told him that the phone was off.

  For Louis and Angel had troubles of their own.

  Mrs Bondarchuk was in the hallway when she heard the buzzer sound. She looked through one of the frosted glass panes of the inner door and saw a man standing on the stoop outside the main door. He was dressed in a blue uniform, and had a package in one hand and a clipboard in the other. Mrs Bondarchuk pressed the intercom switch just as the buzzer sounded again. Her Pomeranians began yapping.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked, in a tone that suggested any help would be a long time coming. Mrs Bondarchuk was wary of all strangers, and especially men. She knew what men were like. There wasn’t a one that could be trusted, the two gentlemen who lived upstairs excepted.

  ‘Delivery,’ the voice came back.

  ‘Delivery for whom?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Mrs Evelyn Bondarchuk.’

  ‘Leave it inside,’ said Mrs Bondarchuk, hitting the switch that opened the outer door only.

  ‘Are you Mrs Bondarchuk?’ said the delivery man, as he stepped into the entrance.

  ‘Who else would I be?’

  ‘Need you to sign for it.’

  There was an inch-wide slot in the inner door for just such eventualities.

  ‘Put it through the hole,’ said Mrs Bondarchuk.

  ‘Lady, I can’t do that. It’s important. I need to hold on to it.’

  ‘What am I going to do with a clipboard?’ asked Mrs Bondarchuk. ‘Sell it and fly to Russia? Put the clipboard through the hole.’

  The front door closed behind the man. She could see him properly now. He had dark hair and bad skin.

  ‘Come on lady, be reasonable. Open up and sign.’

  Mrs Bondarchuk didn’t like the suggestion that she was being in any way unreasonable.

  ‘I can’t do that. You’ll have to go, and you can take your parcel with you. Leave the number and I’ll collect it myself.’

  ‘This is stupid, Mrs Bondarchuk. If you don’t accept it, I got to haul it all the way downtown again. You know, it could get lost,’ the man said, his implication clear. ‘Maybe it’s perishable. What then?’

  ‘Then it’ll start to smell,’ said Mrs Bondarchuk, ‘and you’ll have to throw it away. Leave now, please.’

  But the man did not leave. Instead, he drew a pistol from beneath his uniform and aimed it at the glass. It had a cylinder attached to the end of it. Mrs Bondarchuk had seen enough cop shows to know a silencer when she saw one.

  ‘You dumb old bitch,’ he said, as Mrs Bondarchuk’s finger left the intercom button, ending their conversation, while her left hand hit the silent alarm. The man glanced over his shoulder at the empty street behind him, then aimed the pistol at the glass and fired twice. The sound was like a pair of paper bags bursting, and almost simultaneously two impact marks appeared in front of Mrs Bondarchuk’s face, but the glass did not break. Like most things about the building, Mrs Bondarchuk included, it was more formidable than it first appeared.

  The man outside seemed to realize that his efforts were in vain. He slammed his gloved hand once against the glass, as though hoping to dislodge it from its frame, then opened the main door again and ran onto the street. For a time, all was quiet. Then Mrs Bondarchuk heard noises from the basement at the back of the house. She checked her watch. Five minutes had passed since she had hit the silent alarm. If, after ten minutes, nobody came, her instructions were to call the police. Her two gentlemen had been very specific about this when the new security system was installed, and it had been repeated in an official letter to Mrs Bondarchuk from Mr Leroy Frank himself. It informed her that a private security firm, a very exclusive one, was employed to monitor Mr Frank’s properties in order to take some of the pressure from the city’s finest. In the event of trouble, someone would be with her in less than ten minutes. If, after that time, no help had arrived, only then should she call the police.

  The sounds from the back of the house persisted. She hushed her Pomeranians and quietly made her way downstairs to where the back door opened on to a small paved area where the trash cans were kept. The door was reinforced steel, and there was a spy hole in the center. She looked through it and saw two men, both of them wearing courier uniforms, attaching something to the exterior of the door. One of them, the man who had fired at the front door, looked u
p, and guessed that she was there from the change in the light. He waved a slab of white material, like a piece of builder’s putty. Something that resembled the stub of a pencil stuck out of one end, with a wire attached.

  ‘You ought to step back from the door,’ he said, his voice muffled by the steel yet audible. ‘Better still, lie against it, see what happens.’

  Mrs Bondarchuk moved away, her hands pressed to her mouth.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Oh no.’

  She had to call the police. She retreated farther. She needed to get back to her apartment, needed to summon help. Mr Leroy Frank’s security people had not come. They had let her down, just when she most needed them. She began to run, and realized that she was crying. Her ears were filled with the sound of yapping Pomeranians.

  Twin shots came from outside the door. They were much louder than the earlier shots, and they were followed by the sound of something heavy falling against the metal outside. Mrs Bondarchuk froze, then turned in the direction of the door. She raised the tips of her fingers to her mouth. They trembled, tapping lightly on her fleshy lips.

  ‘Mrs Bondarchuk?’ someone called, and she recognized Mr Angel’s voice. ‘You okay in there?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes. Who were those men?’

  ‘We don’t know, Mrs Bondarchuk.’

  We.

  ‘Have they gone?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Uh, in a way,’ said Mr Angel.

  Mrs Bondarchuk went back to her apartment, closed and locked the door, and sat with a pair of Pomeranians on her lap until Mr Angel came to see her some time later with a chocolate cake from Zabar’s. Together, they ate a slice of cake each and drank a glass of milk, and nice Mr Angel did his best to put Mrs Bondarchuk’s mind at rest.

  6

  To Willie’s surprise, and to Arno’s relief, the man in the storeroom wasn’t dead. His skull was fractured, and he was bleeding from his ears, which Willie didn’t consider to be a good sign, but he was definitely still breathing. This took the decision on what to do next out of Willie’s hands. He wasn’t about to let a stranger die on his floor, so he called 911 and, while they waited for the ambulance and the inevitable cops to arrive, he and Arno got their stories straight. It was a bungled holdup, pure and simple. The men had been looking for money and a car. They were armed and, in fear of their lives, Willie and Arno had tackled them, leaving one unconscious on the floor and forcing the other to flee, wounded.