by Thomas Pluck
Leo rolled to his back. The MAC-10 thunked to the floor. “Desmarteaux,” he groaned.
“Yeah,” Jay pressed his hand into the pillow to stop the bleeding.
“If this leaves me a vegetable, promise you’ll kill me.”
“I promise, whether you’re a vegetable or not.”
Leo pressed a fingertip to the neat little hole in his forehead, and the blood pooled out his eye socket in thick red tears. “Like the Dutch boy at the dike.”
It was an oath Jay did not have to keep. Leo bled out before the SWAT team finished clearing the hospital floor.
Jay was moved to Mountainside Hospital with a twenty-four-hour guard stationed outside his room. Leo’s death ended the questioning into the shooting of the carjacker. The family’s claim would be settled in probate.
A perky-nosed therapist with a long mousy ponytail had Jay make a fist. “When can I box again?”
“I wouldn’t hit anybody with that hand. You’d better throw southpaw. Elbow strikes.” She winked and threw a mock elbow to his temple. “Krav maga.”
When she left, Jay took one of the creased paperbacks that a droopy old man carted from room to room. He was getting into one when a visitor opened the door.
Ramona entered in business attire, sharpened for court.
“Hey, Blackbird.”
“Don’t get up,” she said, and walked over.
He stood anyway, barely wincing. “I won’t be jumping in any pools for a while, but I can damn sure get out of bed.”
He hugged her around the shoulders, bending to keep his stitches away. She held stiff, and patted his shoulder.
“Some guard I got. Didn’t even warn me.”
“He’s one of ours,” Ramona said. “We’re also paying for your room.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Ramona said. “I’m here purely on business.”
Jay tilted his head. “That the way it is?”
“It’s the way it always was. You want me, but he needs me.”
“Why, so he can lie to you?”
Ramona set her jaw. “You need to see his side, Jay. He gave you three pints of blood, you know.”
“I guess you can get blood from a stone.”
“We saved your life. Have a little gratitude.”
“Sorry,” Jay said. “Guess I’m a sore loser.”
She sighed. “We had something, but we were children, playing around. We remind each other of a time when we were happy. That’s all.”
Jay didn’t know if he agreed or was simply hurt that she felt that way, but after she said it, it became the truth.
“Love is like a business,” Ramona said. “It has to keep growing or it dies. Look at Matt’s parents. They had something big and it fell to pieces. Because of her pride.”
“I’d call it dignity.”
“What do you know about dignity? You dragged us all through shit to get your revenge. If you’d taken the money, you could have made something for yourself. How many people got hurt, and how many are dead because of your fucking dignity?”
“Some things are more important than money.”
She rolled her eyes. “The only people who say that don’t have any.”
Jay sat on the bed’s edge. “Get to the point. I didn’t reckon we were gonna elope, but I wasn’t expecting to face you in court.”
“You think this is hardball?” Ramona smirked. “This isn’t even close. Regarding your claim on the Strick estate; we’re prepared to make you a settlement.” She handed him a manila envelope.
Inside was a sealed plastic bag holding another, stained envelope. Jay didn’t open that one. He knew what it contained, and how it would smell. “Your husband is fond of poetic gestures.”
“Yes he is,” Ramona said. “That’s not all of it. Mr. Strick had a large acreage that he leased out, so it would be taxed as farmland. We’re going to develop it as townhomes, once we wait out the county on the affordable housing mandates. If you sign a nondisclosure agreement and forgo all future claims, you’ll get ten percent of our expected future profits.”
“Keep it,” Jay said. “I don’t want it.”
Her poker face might’ve fooled the courtroom, but Jay caught the bloom in her eyes. “I don’t think you understand how much is involved.”
“I said keep it,” Jay said. “It’ll be worth it if I never have to see either of you again.”
Her face went cold. “As you wish. I’ll write the contract.”
Jay handed her the envelope with his birth certificate and the check Strick had written Mama Angeline. “Leo gave me these. It’s all I have to prove who I am.”
She flipped through the papers. “Five thousand dollars. That was a lot of money back then.”
“Bad financial decisions run in the family. Tell Matty to send an errand boy, because if I see him I’m liable to take the rest of his blood in trade.”
“You’re so strong now,” Ramona said. She clenched her fists into knots, her ears flushed. “Where was this when I needed you? We could’ve been together, but you chose your so-called parents over me.”
“You wanted me to turn on them?”
“Matthew would have.”
“I’m sure he would. You don’t understand. They saved me.”
“I saved you, too. Didn’t I?”
Her logic was as twisted as a pit of rattlesnakes, and she had a headful of them.
Jay turned to the window and gripped the bedrail. “You’re not that girl anymore.” He waved his hand. “Fly away, Blackbird.”
He heard her sniff, and the angry little laugh as she bit her bottom lip. He watched a construction crew paving the road outside his window until her shoes clicked away.
Chapter 44
Jay changed into his jeans and work boots. It hurt to bend much but he managed. He took his soaked phone out of the bag of rice Tony gave him, and put the battery back in.
The screen was blurry, with a fat bubble of water popping from corner to corner. He arrowed down a few numbers to one he guessed was the shop and hit dial.
Someone answered in two rings.
“Ha. You’re lucky I picked up, you got me in a hell of a lot of trouble last time.”
“Hersch? Damn, I thought you got shot.”
“Yeah, the whole family called when they heard about those cabbies. They caught the guy, too. Some meth head biker two weeks out of Rahway. I drive freelance now, for this Ryde getup.”
“You got time for a pickup at Mountainside Hospital?”
Herschel arrived in a beige Dodge minivan with a smartphone Velcro-taped to the dash. Jay had washed Matt’s blood money in the sink and patted it dry with towels. It still smelled funky.
“You ever get your girl that pup?”
“Yeah,” Herschel said. “Right before you got me shit-canned.” He flipped the visor, showing a photo of a little girl with long braids and a serious expression hugging a bully breed puppy.
“Said I was sorry,” Jay said. “When I thought you were dead, I got all tore up. Thinking of her and that dog.”
“Gets his nuts cut next week,” Herschel said. “Thing’s a money pit.”
They rolled in front of Big Tony’s behind a tow truck lowering a sleek blue sports car to the curb. A man in a suit held a clipboard next to the flatbed.
“Whoa, that a Ferrari?”
“Looks like a Viper,” Jay said. He dropped a sheaf of bills into Herschel’s lap.
“Whoa.” Herschel regarded it like a coiled snake. “You hit the lottery or something?”
“I was born rich. Don’t spend it all on Puppy Chow.”
“Well, uh, thanks.” Herschel stuffed the cash in his pocket.
Jay slapped his hand and squeezed. “Thanks for everything, Hersch. Tell your wife I’m sorry about the hassle.”
The suit approached. “Mr. Desmarteaux.”
“I got business to attend to.” Jay climbed out with care. Herschel waved nervously and drove away.
; The suit showed Jay two copies of a five-page contract, and the scalloped blue and pink title to the Viper. “You should read this, and ideally have a lawyer present.”
Jay ignored him and signed the papers.
“If that’s how you want it.” He punched the documents with a large round seal that perforated their signatures.
Jay took the title and the keys and looked into the Viper’s interior. “That’s not my real name anyhow.”
“It doesn’t matter,” the notary said. He climbed into the passenger’s side of the tow truck and it pulled onto the street.
Jay eyed the Challenger. Splotches of primer made it resemble a wild steed, a black and white American Paint.
“Holy shit,” Tony moseyed over, scratching inside his shirt. “Whose car is this? That scary Dante guy?”
“Guessing from the color, it’s Ramona’s way of telling me to hit the road.”
Tony arched his eyebrows. “Sorry, pallie. But this is a nice consolation prize.” He ran a hand down the car’s aggressive bulges and curves. The blue paint sizzled electric.
“How hangs the Hammerhead?”
“She’s running,” Tony said. “You really smashed the hell out of her. Had to put in a new radiator.”
“She ready choogle on down to New Orleans?”
“If you take her easy.”
Jay handed him the Viper keys and title. “Hope this’ll cover my debts.”
“Whoa, you sure?” Tony’s eyes lit up like the day they’d met at the pool.
“You know me. I’d just wreck it.” He squeezed Tony’s hand. “Gonna hit the road. Find my folks. What I should’ve done in the first place. Stay strong, brother.”
“Thanks, pallie.” They hugged gingerly, two wounded beasts.
Jay eased into the Challenger and revved the engine, let the roar rumble through him. He checked the compartment. Andre’s tomahawk gleamed within. There it would stay, until he could bury it in his true father’s grave. He goosed the pedal and rolled onto the street.
After a few blocks Billy’s gray cruiser flashed blue and red in the rearview.
Tony’s mix tape snarled “Highway to Hell” on the stereo. Jay dropped the hammer and rode that highway home.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to Josh Stallings, Neliza Drew, Holly West, Lynn Beighley, Chad Eagleton, Andrew Fader, and Elizabeth Kracht for reading drafts of this novel. Thank to my mother Margaret, my uncle Paul Pucci, Richard Finnegan, Peter V. Dell’Orto, Phil Dunlap, Zak Mucha, Cindy Ardoin, James Lee Burke, Adam “Pallie” Sulich and the rest of the guys down at the docks for their assistance and inspiration.
Much respect to Andrew Vachss for his life’s work, and his encouragement and inspiration.
The crime fiction community is a large and friendly one. Thank you all, but special shout-outs to Allan Guthrie, Kent Gowran, Steve Weddle, Nigel Bird, Matthew Funk, Fiona “McDroll” Johnson, Sabrina Ogden, Dave White, Jen Conley, Lawrence Block, Christa Faust, Brad Parks, Hilary Davidson, Don Winslow, Eric Beetner, Bracken MacLeod, Wayne D. Dundee, Sarah Weinman, Les Edgerton, Ian Kearns, Duane Swierczynski, Todd Robinson, Glenn G. Gray, Stephen Blackmoore, Russell MacLean, Janet Reid, Scott Montgomery, Megan Abbott, and everyone else I forgot for their support.
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Thomas Pluck has slung hash, worked on the docks, and even swept the Guggenheim museum—though not as part of a clever heist. He hails from Nutley, New Jersey, also home to criminal masterminds Martha Stewart and Richard Blake, but he has so far evaded capture. When not writing, he trains in Kachin Bando mixed martial arts and powerlifting. He resides in the Garden State with his sassy Louisiana wife and their two cats.
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ALSO BY THOMAS PLUCK
Blade of Dishonor
As Editor
Protectors
Protectors 2
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