“Will they keep trying to call it off?” She rose and headed to the stairs.
“I don’t know.”
“Call them again. If the shooter hasn’t reported back, call Jack or his lawyer and warn him.”
“Warn him?” Susan’s voice came back, high pitched with outrage.
“Yes, so you don’t have the sin of murder on your soul. Call him.”
“Damnit!”
“Just do it, Susan. I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve it. I’m saying it’s God’s place to mete out judgment, not yours or mine.” She was in her room then, flicking the light switch on.
“I’ll try Murder, Inc. first.”
“Fine, but call him if they haven’t succeeded in reaching the shooter. I’m going to drive around and see if I can find Luke. Call me and let me know if they reach the shooter.” She walked into the closet and changed her clothes with her phone on speaker, sitting on a shelf.
There was a long pause.
“Are you there?”
“I’m here. I’ll let you know.” She hung up.
Augusta finished dressing, grabbed the phone off the shelf and her keys off her nightstand, then headed down the stairs.
I can’t believe this. I really can’t believe this. What was she thinking?
It was a stupid question for a woman who’d been reaching for the phone to make the same calls just before Susan had phoned her. She knew it. She found herself stopped in the garage with the car door open, one hand on it, knuckles white.
If she hadn’t called, would I be arranging their deaths myself right now? Why would it have been okay for me to do it, but not her?
The slightly dusty, oily air of the garage filled her nostrils and lungs as she thought it over.
I could say screw it and go back into the house.
Unbidden, the inevitable memory of her own words to Susan minutes ago filled her inner ears. “Yes, so you don’t have the sin of murder on your soul. Call him.”
She swayed like a pine tree in a freezing wind and almost fell. Her grip on the car door saved her. When it passed, she settled into the seat, breathing hard, and hit the garage door opener. As it rose, she realized how long it had been since she’d prayed. She crossed herself before turning the key and prayed as she pulled down the shifter and drove out into the street. At the end of the block, she realized the boys were at home alone, asleep in their beds, and she didn’t know when she’d be back. It took her a moment to recall whether she’d even locked the door. She had. On the passenger seat, where George so often sat, was her phone; she reached over, used the button to activate the voice function, and told it to call her mother on speakerphone.
Mrs. Peterson answered sleepily on the fourth ring. “Augusta? What’s the matter, honey? I’ll be there in 15 minutes if you want.”
“Mother, Susan hired a shooter to kill Jack and Luke.”
Silence.
“Mother, I have to stop it.”
“You’re right.” Mrs. Peterson’s voice was flat and expressionless.
“I’m heading down to the mission now to find Luke, if I can, and protect him until Susan gets hold of the hitman and calls him off.”
“I’m getting dressed now. Your father and I will come stay with the boys.”
“They’re asleep. I’m already out the door. Don’t forget your keys.”
“Right. Putting them in my purse now.”
“Tell Dad I love him.”
“Be safe.”
“Mother, it’s me.”
“Accidents still happen. Remember when you were 16 and hit your head on the air conditioning cage at your friend’s house off Third Street?”
“I do, Mother, but I’m grown now, and I’m fine.”
“Why I ever let you visit in a part of town where they have to put cages around their air conditioners to keep them from being stolen, I’ll never know.”
“I love you, Mother.”
“I love you, too.”
“Gotta go.”
She sped down Poplar Avenue toward the expressway. She got on the 240 loop and went around town as fast as she could. It was surreal. The streetlights, the overpasses, and other cars passed as if they were things in another dimension. Smiles from billboards leered at her among jumbles of words. Buildings, like glossy islands in seas of glowing jellyfish, drifted by. She kept a lookout for cops, staying five to ten miles over the speed limit, and hoped if she did meet a cop, he wouldn’t be too eager to give her a ticket. She didn’t turn the radio on. Silences, like palpable things, sat in the passenger seats, looking over her shoulders in nervous anticipation, eager and edgy.
She pulled onto the exit and only slowed down enough to make the turn without flipping the car. Her tires squealed on the pavement. Somehow, between the hulking buildings, she found her way onto Union Avenue and made her way between yawning side streets up to the mission. There were no cop cars out front with blue lights flashing, and no ambulances or fire trucks flashing yellow or red, either.
If Luke’s there, she breathed in relief, he’s still alive. She slowed, wondering what to do, and realized she was exhausted. Looking around, she saw no sign of anyone waiting around outside or trying to break into the building. Then, ever practical, she found a coffee shop and got a cup to keep herself awake. She slowly patrolled the neighborhood, looking for any sign of Luke, expecting perhaps to find him on a bus stop bench or in a doorway.
She tried out different things to say to him if she found him, rehearsed short speeches. Nothing worked. In the midst of this searching, the phone rang. She swiped the icon and asked, “Susan?”
“I’ve tried. I really have. They say the shooter still hasn’t answered. His phone must be dead. They’ve left ‘abort mission’ as text and voicemail. If he doesn’t get it and completes the hit, I have to pay.”
“Did they give you his number?”
“No.”
“Okay, I’m downtown searching for Luke.”
“In the dead of night?”
“Yes, he’s in danger.”
“What if you get hurt or killed trying to help him like you did me? Are you willing to die for the man who had George killed?”
“I guess I am. It’s wrong. You know it’s wrong, or you wouldn’t have called me. Our guardian angels must have been on duty tonight.”
“I wish I could be grateful for that.”
“You know it’s true.”
“Maybe. I can’t take it. Good luck. Don’t get yourself hurt.”
“I won’t. I’m not in any danger.”
“Go home so you don’t get hurt. The shooter will have to check his messages at some point.”
The pleading note in Susan’s voice touched her. She softened as she said, “We don’t know that. For all we know, he’s working this hit for money to pay his phone bill.”
“Just because you got lucky last time doesn’t mean you will this time. Don’t risk it all for a man like Luke, please.” Susan’s voice changed from pleading to scathing.
“You’re a good friend. Don’t worry about me.” It occurred to her that Luke could be camping out close to the soup kitchen in midtown. “Did you tell them that Luke’s been eating at St. Vincent de Paul?”
“I told them about that and the mission, just in case, yes.”
“Okay. Did you call Jack?”
“Not yet.”
“You have to call him. Do it now. I have to go.”
“Okay,” Susan said, angry and resigned.
She sped away from the mission neighborhood and up to Madison, where she turned east. There were a few homeless people asleep on the street near the soup kitchen, but none of them appeared to be Luke. She drove the neighborhood, looking for him, trying to rehearse the speech she’d been composing previously. The desire to beat him senseless and leave him for dead was rising in her again. Her sense of purpose wavered. Frustrated, she wondered what to do—stake out the soup kitchen or the mission? She could only guess how an amateur hitman would go after Luke, as
suming he went after Luke first.
The phone rang again. It was Susan. She swiped, and Susan’s voice filled the car.
“Well, I did it. I called Jack and warned him. I didn’t apologize, I just warned him and hung up. I didn’t give him time to speak. I hate him. I’ll always hate him now, but I won’t have him killed.”
“That’s better, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know why I called you.”
“You called to save us both. I was about to do the same thing.”
“Damn.”
“I know. I’m out here trying to save a man I’d rather see dead in a gutter.”
“Please don’t get hurt. You’re my friend, and I owe you everything.”
“I’m safe and cozy as a pea in its pod, friend.”
Later, close to 7:00, gambling on where Luke would be, staked out the side street near the soup kitchen, eating a doughnut and drinking a third cup of coffee, she sat waiting as the sun rose. The food wouldn’t be served until 9:30, which was a long way off, but she waited, knowing some of the locals and homeless folk would wander in early with nothing better to do. A car, a bit of an old beater, pulled into the lot between St. Vincent de Paul and the business across the lot. Was it a man living out of his car or the shooter, or both? She kept one eye on it and one eye roving. The fellow sat in his car, and it was hard to see what he was doing or tell anything about him. She sipped her coffee and settled back to wait, her gaze sweeping slowly over the scene.
When her eyes drifted open due to a heavy truck rumbling by, she wasn’t sure where she was, and turned to George to ask him what was going on, but he wasn’t there. She stared at the empty seat beside her, the sense of loss too immediate and cutting for any other context to matter. How long she sat there staring at the seat she didn’t know because she hadn’t marked what time she woke up. The motion of a man walking by her car caught her attention, and she remembered where she was and why.
“Luke,” she said and looked at the clock on the dash. It was already 9:15. She turned the key to neutral and pulled it out. She could imagine George telling her to be more careful about where she fell asleep and to be sure she found Luke. “He had you killed,” she said in annoyance. “Why should I?”
Almost as if he were there, she could hear him saying, “He’s my brother.”
The rage that had filled her the last two times she had seen him filled her again. She felt strong and full of malice as she strode up the walk toward the soup kitchen. When she rounded the corner, she saw a line of men, black and white, young and old, and not a few women, too, waiting outside, and Luke was in it.
“He’s my brother,” George’s imagined voice came to her again.
Stop thinking of that, she chided herself.
“He’s my brother,” it came again. A sense of betrayal, curiously doubled, dragged suddenly on her shoulders like a great barbell.
“I can’t,” she said, unsure of what she was denying.
“It ain’t no shame,” a wheezing voice told her.
She turned and saw an elderly black man, neatly dressed and bearing a large cooler in both hands, walking past her toward the back of the building. He was clearly straining at the weight.
“Whether you’re here to help or ask for help, it ain’t no shame, ma’am. There’s no need for them tears, none at all.” He smiled at her as he walked on by. His voice drifted back to her, saying, “You just do whatever you come here to do. It’ll be all right, either way.”
She watched him totter on and turn at the corner of the building, bearing his load. When he was gone, she asked herself what it was she’d come to do. She was here to stop a murder, to stop Susan from being complicit in that murder, and herself, too. She remembered the man in the car, waiting early in the parking lot. She ran the direction the elderly black man had gone and looked around the corner into the parking lot between the buildings. The black man was gone, but the man she had seen before was getting out of his car and shutting the door. He looked shabby but didn’t have the air she associated with the homeless and hungry. She turned and ran back the other way to find Luke.
He was there. She jogged up the line, scanning for danger. Where was the assassin? There, the man from the car was rounding the corner, his face angry and intent, his hands in his jacket pockets. Was there a gun in one pocket? She got to Luke and grabbed him by the arm. He turned sharply, gasped on seeing her, and drew away.
“Augusta? What more can you do to me?” he demanded. “For Christ’s sake, let me eat, at least. I have nothing left.”
“Shut up and come with me,” she hissed, keeping her voice low and urgent.
He stared at her, his face taut, brows furrowed in confusion.
“Come on.” She pulled at his arm, and he resisted. The tug-of-war lasted several seconds before she realized she couldn’t pull him against his will, and he was no longer looking at her. The expression on his face had turned from consternation to white-eyed fear. Instinct took over, she turned her pull into a push, and shoved him to the pavement of the sidewalk. The line of hungry people scattered. She whirled to see a bearded man she hadn’t known was there crossing the lawn from Claybrook Street. He wore a hat with a duck on it and a bright orange jacket. He had a double barrel shotgun in his hand.
“Out of the way, ma’am,” he said, “I have business to attend to, and I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“If you want to get at this man, you have to go through me,” she said, but Luke was scrambling up to run, and she had to run to interpose herself between them. As he did, the shooter thought he had an opening and pulled both triggers. Both barrels let out a blast, but somehow they went high and struck the side of the building instead of hitting her or Luke. The shooter swore. Luke, always slow to react, threw himself to the ground and covered his head. Augusta, ears ringing, stood her ground between them.
“Your phone battery is dead, isn’t it?” she asked him, shouting.
“What?” he asked, digging in his pocket for more shells.
“You can borrow mine, if you like,” she said.
He opened the breech and stuffed the shells in.
“Your client rescinded the hit,” she explained. “Call and verify what I’m telling you before you waste your time.”
He thought about that for a moment. “Nah, screw that. I have no reason to believe you. Get out of the way.” He angled for a shot. She followed his movements.
“Ah, damn,” he muttered and advanced on her. She stood her ground. He went to shove her aside, missed, and tripped, falling to one knee.
“Let me help you up,” she offered. Behind her, Luke had risen and was running away around the building. The crowd of hungry people had all but disappeared. A few were in sight, peering around corners or hiding behind cars.
The shooter looked up at her, confusion and annoyance making him grimace. “Out of the way, lady. I have a job to do. That scumbag needs killing.”
“He sure deserves it,” she said agreeably, “but that’s not really for us to decide.”
He attempted to push her out of the way as he got to his feet, overbalanced, and fell again, face first.
He rolled and pointed the shotgun up at her face. “Lady, what the hell are you doing to me? Beat it, before I do you for free.”
“I’m trying to save your soul, sir. Murder is a sin.”
He rolled over onto his hands and knees and rose, backing away from her. “Sin don’t mean a damn thing to me. Paychecks do, though.” He tried to go around her, and she blocked his path again.
“He had my husband killed. If anyone has the right to want him dead, it’s me. I don’t.” Her voice cracked as she said it. Her whole body suddenly ached and shook with the admission. Wretched, stupid tears filled her eyes, and she had to wipe them away to see the shooter properly.
“What?” he asked, stopping.
“My husband,” she repeated.
“That son of a bitch had your husband killed, and you don’t
want him dead?”
“That’s right.” Her chest hurt so much she could barely breathe. George!
“Did you want your husband dead?”
“No,” she sobbed.
He lowered the shotgun and shook his head. “Let me by, lady. He deserves it, and I need the paycheck. We both win. You get him dead, and don’t have to take the blame for it.”
“I can’t do that. It won’t make it right.”
“Look, lady, even God wants this bastard dead.” He tried again to get by, and she blocked him, tears streaming down her cheeks, legs feeling weak from lack of sleep, and the wave of grief rolling over her. He went right at her to knock her down, and by all rights he should have, but she stood her ground, and he tripped over a bootlace, turned his ankle, and rolled out into the lawn by the concrete walk.
Cussing and yelling, he tried to rise. The turned ankle wouldn’t allow it. He fell back, cradling it. “Shit, lady, I can’t believe this. Am I cursed? What happened here? Shit, it hurts. My goddamn ankle. Shit. I just need a paycheck.”
She stood over him, looking down at the shotgun he’d dropped. I could take it up and shoot him dead if I wanted. Why didn’t I do that to Shaw? He was pathetic, though. Wiping away her tears, she opened her purse and pulled out all the cash. She didn’t know how much it was. She gave half the wad to him, stuffing it into the pocket of his bright orange jacket. She took the rest into the soup kitchen and put it on a table. A frightened man in an apron was on his phone with 911. She shook her head and walked out.
The shooter was using his shotgun as a crutch and hobbling away toward Cleveland Avenue. She looked into the parking lot on the other side of the building. Luke was long gone. She shrugged, realizing she should have expected no more from him. He’d saved his own skin and, so far as he’d known, left her in danger of maiming or death. The things she’d wanted to say were left unsaid. Saying them would have been a waste, anyway.
The hungry and those who fed them appeared again from where they’d gone to hide. They approached her but, defeated, she returned to her car and drove away.
Shank Page 19
