Parallax

by Jon F. Merz

  His lids dipped and then shut completely. His fingers still curled around the grip of his pistol. No way was he not keeping that close by him. Not with his stomach still aching.

  His mind cleared and he thought about the summer he and Alois had gone sailing off the coast of Greece. Stahl had done a number of operations around Cyprus and Rhodes and knew the area well. Off the sugary beaches that lined the Adriatic, they'd sailed out one day in a small boat. Alois had been entranced with how the sail caught the gusts of wind and propelled them through the water fast and furiously. Stahl smiled as he remembered how wonderful the sound of his son laughing had made him feel.

  What was it about the innocence of a child that could almost erase completely any of the heinous things he'd done in his past?

  Fifty yards from shore, they'd dropped anchor in about twenty feet of water. Alois had leaned over the edge of the boat and marveled at the clear blue waters. As the sun rose overhead and warmed their skin, Stahl had told Alois the stories of Greek gods and goddesses he'd learned as a child himself. As the waves caressed the boat, they both felt lulled to sleep. Alois nestled his head against his father's side and drifted off, snoring lightly in the afternoon sun.

  Stahl had glanced down and wondered if there was ever anything like a paradise, then it certainly must have looked something like this.

  Later on, they'd come back ashore and built a fire. Over the yellow and orange flames, they cooked some fish they'd caught and ate while the millions of stars gradually came out overhead. Laying on the sand, Stahl showed Alois how to find constellations and wove more stories around them. Pretty soon, they both fell asleep again.

  Stahl felt himself starting to drift off to sleep. His breathing had deepened. His muscles had begun to unwind and relax, the stress of the day's activities and near misses melting away.

  Part of him felt relieved to have been involved in a shoot-out. It had been years since someone had fired a gun at him. Stahl figured it was a good thing to know that he still had the ability to stay cool and calm when the bullets started to fly.

  He would need that same coolness very soon.

  He took another deep breath and let his consciousness expand slowly outward.

  It felt good to sleep.

  So very good.

  But his stomach still hurt.

  In fact, that single sensation threatened to keep him firmly awake when the rest of him wanted to go to sleep and dream of better times.

  Stahl frowned.

  His stomach suddenly rumbled. A fresh wave of pain enveloped him.

  And then someone knocked on his hotel room door.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  There weren't many places Frank could go. Nor were there many people he could speak with about what had just happened. Part of him wanted to ask Gia what she thought of the entire situation. But a bigger part of him didn't want to hear her superior attitude come into play.

  On a whim he stopped his truck by a pay phone near Hereford Street and dialed a number. The voice on the other end of the phone sounded as gravelly as the day Frank had first heard it.

  "I need to see you."

  The voice paused. "If this is who I think, you ain't the flavor of the fucking month right now sunshine. Seeing you ain't exactly a prescription for long living."

  "I'd consider it a personal favor."

  "Figured you would." Another pause. "You know Cappy's by the Prudential?"

  "I'm close by there right now."

  "Of course you are. How else could you guarantee your own safety? Anyway, you go in there head for the back. I'm in a booth."

  "See you soon."

  Frank hung up and glanced around. Being out in the open wasn't a good idea, either. Not after the shootout at the ice cream parlor. But he had to know who was on his trail. That meant speaking with Bukowski.

  Moe had stressed the importance of having eyes and ears on the ground - people he could rely on for information provided the price was right. The problem with paying informants was you were never sure of where their loyalties lay. So Moe had also stressed the importance of being able to call in personal favors.

  Among the other things he'd bequeathed to Frank in his will, Moe had also left him a couple of contacts he could call in case of extreme emergency. These were people who owed Moe and Moe had passed their markers on to Frank. Frank could use them as he saw fit.

  Guess this qualifies as an emergency, he thought as he parked the Explorer with the valet at the Sheraton Hotel on Dalton Street, forty steps away from Cappy's. He took another glance around him. Whoever was on his tail, they were bound to have their own eyes looking for him.

  The less time out on the street, the better.

  He hustled across Dalton Street, walked past the cinema on his left and then steered into Cappy's - a hideaway joint that overlooked the Massachusetts Turnpike streaming along beneath its darkened windows.

  Bukowski held court in the rear of the bar, picking out the best college and pro games to place money on. He was a professional advisor to some of the biggest names in the organized crime world. But he owed allegiance to no one. The bosses liked it that way. Bukowski was a stand-alone operator who never got involved in the politics of things. If you needed a hot tip, though, he was the guy you went to see.

  Moe had also told Frank that Bukowski was the most informed guy on the crime scene. He knew everyone. He knew what was going on. If the crime world had a pulse, Bukowski's finger was on it.

  Franked eased himself through the door. No one looked up. The few people inside stared into the steins of beer or their highball glasses, preferring to ignore anyone who entered. It was that kind of place.

  He glanced at the tinted windows and from here it looked like it would soon be raining outside. He wondered if the way the windows cast the outside world had anything to do with the overall demeanor of the crowd inside.

  He moved toward the back. High booths shielded anyone sitting in them from view but as he got closer, a single finger stuck out of the side of one of them and bent inward, beckoning him on.

  Frank slid in opposite Bukowski. "Thanks for saving me the good seat." From where he sat, Frank could just make out anyone coming in to the bar.

  "You woulda made me move anyway you inconsiderate puke."

  Frank looked at him and tried not to stare. Bukowski's liver-spotted skin hung off his face in long drapes of flesh that shuddered when he spoke. In front of him, a stack of newspapers and magazines cluttered the table. An overflowing ashtray showed the remains of twenty or so unfiltered cigarettes.

  "Still gunning the tobacco."

  Bukowski grunted. "I'm almost eighty anyway. I'll be dead soon. Why not go out on my own terms?"

  "A lot to be said for that."

  Bukowski chuckled and it sounded as if he was going to puke phlegm. "You might just beat me to the grave, sonny. You know what kind of people you got pissed off at you?"

  Frank shook his head. "That's why I called. I need to know who they are."

  "What the hell did you whack Patrisi for?"

  "I never said I did."

  Bukowski shrugged. "Have it your way, kid. Everyone knows it was you. You think that little fire you set erased the evidence? It didn't. You know what they can do with corpses these days? All that forensic shit?"

  "I don't watch much TV."

  "Yeah, well, you should. Discovery Channel. You might learn something. Anyway, they pulled the old man out and even though he was pretty much charred beyond recognition, they also managed to pull a couple of slugs out his head. You wouldn't know anything about that, either, I suppose."

  "Maybe he pissed someone off."

  "Yeah. Looks like that's what happened. I'd love to know why."

  Frank smiled. "So would I."

  Bukowski lit a fresh cigarette. The smoke circled Frank's head. He inhaled, tasting the burned air and his mouth watered. After a second, Bukowski exhaled. "Moe taught you well. And I guess this you calling in your marker now, ain't it?"<
br />
  "Could be."

  "I had a lot of respect for that guy. He helped me out of a jam once or twice. He tell you that?"

  "Mentioned something one time, yeah."

  "Dealing with those damned Chinese." Bukowski shook his head. "Buncha freaking savages."

  "You fed them wrong information was the way I heard it."

  "Fuck Ôem." Bukowski sighed. "Moe helped me out and that was that. Enough said. Now you're here."

  "Yeah."

  "Patrisi's boys, you know, they wouldn't really give much of a rat's ass about you. Hell, some of them pups are eager to fill the old man's shoes."

  "So why the hit team?"

  "Seems as though some of the other families had had enough of Patrisi. They'd sent in one of their best guns to scout the scene for a possible takeover."

  "Hostile? That kinda thing doesn't usually happen anymore."

  Bukowski took a sip of his drink. "They knew the kind of guy they were dealing with. They knew Patrisi wouldn't lay over and play dead. If they wanted his action, it'd be by force alone."

  Frank leaned back in the booth. "Damn."

  "Yeah. You see hotshot, if you'd just waited, they woulda taken care of your problem for you. But you had to go and jump the gun on them. That ain't exactly sitting real well with the out-of-towners. Especially now that they gotta prove to Patrisi's boys they got some kind of respect for their old man. So they offer to come in and shake the trees, find you and waste your ass. Then they'll take over the action from within and come away with loyal supporters at the same time."

  "Everyone wins."

  Bukowski chuckled again. "Everyone but you, sonny. You got a target painted on you bigger than the buildings outside. They'll find you, it's just a matter of time."

  "I could leave town," Frank offered.

  "They'd find you. Hired guns with the level of proficiency you have are tough to find nowadays. There's only so many of you guys left in the world. A dying breed." Bukowski shrugged. "Might be one less of you before too long."

  "Thanks for the words of encouragement."

  "You asking my advice?"

  "Would you give me any if I was?"

  "It's my business. I give advice all the time."

  "About games."

  "About life," said Bukowski. "And right now yours ain't worth scratch. I was in your place, I'd take whatever sort of money I'd stashed over the years and use it to buy me a new face. Then I'd find a nice warm island somewhere and retire. Ogle women for the rest of my days. Drink rum. Eat bananas, I don't give a shit. Thing is, you stay around here trying to put the world to rights and you won't last the better part of a week."

  "How many of them?"

  "Guns? As many as they need. They're importing some talent from the left coast as I hear it. Couple of psychos out of Folsom. Ex-military dudes. Probably some kind of Special Forces types. These guys aren't your usual greaseback Dagos. They'll keep coming because they're paid to do that." Bukowski stabbed his cigarette to death in the ashtray. "Get outa town, kid. Get the hell away from Boston now while you still can."

  Frank slid out of the booth. "Thanks for the advice."

  "It's only advice if you take it, sonny." Bukowski eyed him. "Don't be stupid about this, Frank. This ain't one you're gonna win. Time to close up shop, you hear me?"

  "I hear you."

  Bukowski nodded. "Then make sure you damn well listen. Now get out of here before a customer comes in and recognizes you. I still got a few years left I want to play with."

  Frank almost smiled, but at the last second didn't feel like it. He walked out of the bar and back into the danger zone.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Stahl came fully awake instantly - nerves already firing and adrenaline flooding his bloodstream. His fingers curled around the pistol grip and he slid off the bed.

  Who would be knocking at his door?

  He brought the pistol up, aiming about midway down the door. He could just shoot through it and kill whomever stood on the other side. Three rounds to punch through the wood.

  He frowned.

  There were no guarantees the door didn't have some type of steel plate in the middle of it. The bullets might ricochet back and kill him instead. Stahl knew the chances of that happening were remote, but he always took them into account anyway.

  More to the point, did it make sense for him to shoot first? He felt pretty certain he didn't have any surveillance on him. He'd been careful up until a few hours ago when he met the American. Why should he be in any danger now?

  It didn't make sense.

  He crept closer to the door, still keeping the pistol aimed midway down it. The door had a peephole. He could easily look through it and verify who stood on the other side.

  Stahl shook his head.

  No.

  He'd killed a man once simply by firing through the peephole when he thought the time was right. And besides, a professional wouldn't necessarily stand in front of the door straight on anyway. They'd stand off to the side. Against the doorjamb where it'd be tougher to spot them - the way Stahl had earlier.

  His heart hammered inside his chest. His bowels felt a bit loose. Stahl hated the gut physiological reactions he couldn't truly control. They came with the territory and despite all his years of experience, they still made Stahl feel like a nervous virgin.

  Another knock sounded against his door.

  No time left for indecision. Stahl kept his voice low and harsh. "Who is it?"

  "Karen."

  That stopped him. What the hell was she doing here? And more importantly, how had she found him?

  "Step in front of the door so I can see you."

  He risked a peek through the peephole. Sure enough, Karen stood in the hallway. Stahl lowered the pistol and unlocked the door.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" he asked when he opened it.

  Karen nodded toward the interior. "You mind if I come in? I don't want to have a conversation in the hallway."

  Stahl stood back, keeping the pistol down by his right leg. No sense letting her see how close he'd come to shooting her.

  "You can put the pistol away, Ernst." She strode past him and then turned with a smile. "I know how you answer hotel room doors when someone knocks on them. Remember Istanbul?"

  Stahl almost smirked. The PKK had hired them to assassinate a leading member of the Turkish Parliament. Karen and Stahl had done the hit and then retired to their hotel. The PKK had then tried to kill them – tying up loose ends – by sending a bike courier with a bomb to their room. Stahl had shot him through the door, disarmed the bomb, and then stowed the same explosive under the bed of the PKK's leader. The same man who'd tried to kill Stahl and Karen died jerking off that very same night. Stahl fought to stifle the grin. Talk about an explosive orgasm.

  "You haven't answered my question yet."

  She shrugged. "I thought I'd come by and try again." She looked at him. "Ernst, I could really be a help to you. It's been years since I did any of this work. And then all of a sudden you're back in my life." She slumped against the bureau. "It's like you've unlocked all these emotions and feelings within me that I haven't felt in years."

  He set the pistol down on the bed. "I didn't intend to do that."

  "That doesn't mean you can disavow any of it."

  He sighed. "I have a job to do, Karen. One that doesn't involve you."

  "You've already involved me. Can't you see that? Even that silly little errand you sent me on. Just knowing I was helping you got me all excited. Twisted up in knots. I can't sleep at night. I can't get these images out of my mind. Things. Stuff we used to do. Missions. Nights. It's all coming back at me faster than I ever thought possible."

  Stahl crossed his arms. "And what happens if you get killed in the course of this assignment? What happens then?"

  "Then I'm dead."

  The finality in her voice startled him. Her eyes had taken on the same coldness he'd seen all those years before when they'd first met.
Gone was the neat and proper college professor he'd seen a few days previously. Now the cold killer he'd killed with and slept with so many years ago had come back.

  "I don't know."

  She came forward. To Stahl it seemed like there was a palpable electricity crackling in the air. "ErnstÉ"

  He looked at her. Was she crying? Her eyes looked moist. He frowned. "I don't recall you being so emotional."

  "It's not just the emotion."

  Stahl's head hurt. Curiously, his stomach had stopped aching. He considered her. In truth, while he preferred operating alone. Swore by it, in fact. Part of him really did want her along. But why? Surely not for her expertise. Inside, he knew the answer. He didn't want to say it, though.

  Karen smiled. She knows it, too, thought Stahl.

  She came closer. "I need this."

  Stahl's throat felt like it had grown a thick carpet. "The mission?"

  Karen shook her head. "No."

  Stahl leaned back. It was a futile gesture. Karen simply took another step toward him. When had she gotten so close? Stahl couldn't remember her walking closer, and yet, all of a sudden here she was.

  Her pupils blossomed ebon. They seemed to pull him in.

  And then the space was gone. Vanished. Only the heat remained. Molecules sandwiched in the microspaces between folds of clothes.

  Stahl felt his arms come up. His self-control vanished. Had all his will deserted him, too?

  Yes.

  Karen's lips brushed his. A tiny prick of static electricity made Stahl jump. Karen laughed. "It's my socks."

  Stahl tired to glance down. When had she taken her shoes off?

  Her lips brushed his again. This time there was no pain. Only warmth. Moist warmth.

  "Ernst."

  Her voice tickled his ear. He pressed forward and she met him halfway. He could feel himself going a bit lightheaded. Like a sudden rush of blood had jumped out of his brain and plummeted down south.

  She pressed into him. Harder.

  He tasted her full on the lips. He felt her tongue come forward, testing the waters - looking for permission to proceed.