Later they finished a dinner of canned beans and sardines, and Rosie seemed a little more relaxed. “So what you planning to do now, Rosie? Go back to Italy? You got people there?” Mac stretched out his long legs and pulled out a smoke. The warmth of the fire made the small cabin cozy. He smiled at Rosie, hoping her answer would be no.
“Oh, no, not Italy. I have no family there anymore. Vito was my only family, and I couldn’t even see him properly buried.” Rosie looked down. “He was good to me. If it weren’t for Uncle Vito I probably would be a novice by now.”
“A novice?”
“I’m sorry. I forgot you are not Catholic. Everybody at home is. A novice is, well, a kind of apprentice nun, a junior nun.”
“A nun! You wanted to become a nun? Oh, no, I can’t believe it.” Mac stood up and confronted her. “Get up!”
Rosie stood up. Her dark eyes never left his narrowed blue eyes. Very slowly, Mac lowered his lips to hers. His kiss was light, but lingering.
Rosie pulled away first. She was laughing. “No, Mac, I never really thought I’d have made a good nun. But, you see, I’d been in an Ursuline Convent School ever since my parents died when I was very young. I knew no other life. So when I graduated, it seemed like a good idea. I had no future.”
“Well, you do now, Rosie. You do now.”
“I don’t know what the future will bring, but I know it’s here, on this side of the ocean. There is something I must do now, Mac. Come and sit down. I need to talk to you.”
“What you need to do,” Mac said as he sat next to her, “is to put as much space between you and those gangsters as we can get.”
“Yes, but first I must find the Sisters of the Ursuline Convent here in America. I have a regalo, a gift for them from Uncle Vito. They will pray for his soul.”
Mac stared at her. She was sure one complicated woman. “Gift? Vito? I don’t understand.”
“Well, it’s simple. Until I deliver this, eh, gift, neither Uncle Vito or I will be free. I must do it, but how? Will you help me, Mac?”
Her smile almost made him consider this crazy scheme. But he said, “I wouldn’t even know where to start.” Rosie really should have picked somebody better qualified to help save Uncle Vito’s soul.
* * * *
THURSDAY, MAY 5th: In the morning, Mac headed for Tanky’s place. Rosie was still sleeping in the cabin’s only bedroom. Mac had bunked on the couch. Chrissakes, he’d never had any trouble with women, but what could he do with a little nun? The best thing to do was keep his distance.
About an half mile from Tanky’s, Mac pulled off the road and was able to maneuver the Porsche up an abandoned logging road. “Can’t never be too careful,” he muttered as he wiped the car clean. Continuing on foot, he approached the garage from the rear. He stood at the edge of the woods and waited. His old truck was still parked by the garage. Checking out the ramshackle house next to the garage, he noticed that Naomi’s station wagon was gone. Everything was quiet. After about ten minutes, Mac walked slowly along the side of the building and slipped inside. The door had been ajar. Silence. No country music blared from the radio, no movement, nobody home.
Mac spotted Tanky over in the grease pit. At first, he thought Tanky was just standing there, resting against the side of the pit. When he reached him, he saw that Tanky’s head was twisted at an unnatural angle. His throat had been slit, just like Vito’s. Someone had propped him up in the grease pit. Poor bastard, Mac thought. Looks like they worked him over pretty good before they killed him. He’d have handed me to them on a platter if he could’ve, but he sure as hell didn’t deserve nothing like this. Looking around, Mac saw that there weren’t even signs of a struggle. He figured that Tanky had been taken by surprise, as he was a big man and would have gone down swinging. “Damn them all to hell,” Mac muttered.
Mac found Tanky’s handgun in the bottom drawer of the old desk and shoved it into his belt. He was gathering up two boxes of hollow point bullets, when he spotted a West Virginia license plate in the back of the drawer. He slipped it inside his jacket. Stuffing the bills from the cash box into his pockets, he headed toward the door.
Outside, Mac pressed against the side of the building. He edged closer to the truck, alert for any unusual sounds or movements. It was a beautiful, clear spring morning, and birds were making a racket in the nearby trees. Relaxing a little, Mac told himself that even these crazy hoods wouldn’t hang around. Easing the keys from his pocket, he ran for the truck. Too late, he realized that his tires had been slashed while he’d been inside. The air was slowly seeping out of all four tires.
The first shot landed about five feet ahead of him. Hitting the ground, Mac snaked along on this belly until he had the truck between himself and his attackers. Bullets hit the ground all around him. They weren’t trying to kill him, or he’d be dead by now. He realized that they needed him alive so he could lead them to Rosie. Bastards!
Rolling into the cover of the woods, he was up and running instantly. Zigzagging around trees, he dove into the cover of some overhanging evergreen branches. New spring brambles fused the thicket into a thick screen. Behind him, his pursuers were bulldozing their way through the woods. He fingered the gun at his waist.
The thrashing noises faded. Mac started off silently, heading deeper into the woods. Here he was in control. He had hunted every inch of this mountainside; it was his turf. They could kiss his butt. Moving fast and shortcutting over rough terrain, it still took him over two hours to reach Jett’s cabin.
Rosie was nowhere to be found. Panicking, he wondered if the Mob had found her here. But, no, impossible. There were no fresh tire tracks, and that bunch were no woodsmen. “Rosie,” he shouted, throwing out all caution. “Rosie, where are you?”
Rosie emerged from the woods, carrying an armful of redbud blossoms. She was smiling. Mac stopped and stared at her. “Thank God you’re safe.” He didn’t want to alarm her, but he had to get her away.
“These are my ‘regalo,’ my gift to Uncle Vito.” She laid the flowers under a huge oak tree, then crossed herself.
Back inside the cabin Mac said, “There’s been a problem with the truck. I’ll tell you about it later. Right now, we gotta get outta here and quick.” They gathered up the rest of Jett’s canned food, a couple of flashlights, and two sleeping bags from the bedroom. Rosie was calm; she didn’t ask any questions. Mac fashioned two packs out of the sleeping bags and they started off through the woods. He had the satisfaction of picturing the look on Jett’s face when he finally showed up at the cabin. He’d be some kinda pissed. He did feel a stab of guilt when they passed the spot where he’d taken his first buck at the age of 12. Jett had been with him, his teacher, his friend. Well, Jett had changed; he was a cop now.
It was tough going for the first 10 or 15 minutes. When they finally reached a stretch of level ground, they stopped to catch their breaths. Rosie looked so scared that Mac was concerned. “We’ll have to rough it for a while, Rosie. But don’t worry, we’ll make it to your convent. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
A look of astonishment flashed over Rosie’s face. She struggled out of her pack, threw her arms around Mac, and kissed him. “You are wonderful, Mac, wonderful. Grazie!” The rest of her words came out in rapid-fire Italian. She grabbed his hand. “We can do it, Mac. You are a good man!”
The sun was directly overhead when Rosie and Mac reached the Cacapon River. They had followed an old game trail, which made the going easy. Mac had had time to think. Actually, he felt great. Maybe if he helped Rosie with this crazy scheme, just maybe, she’d think he was a decent guy. But he had no idea how they were going to pull it off. They had no vehicle, little money, and no idea of their destination. Plus, the Mob was on their tail. Mac looked around at the rugged sandstone cliffs and the rushing spring flood river, and he knew no one would ever find them here. They were safe for now.
By evening, Mac had thrown together a lean-to of pine branches and had gotten a fire going. Rosie had
helped gather branches and driftwood. When they had finished and were heating cans of macaroni for dinner, Mac filled her in on what had happened to Tanky.
“Dio mio, that poor man. I will pray for him along with Uncle Vito.” Rosie looked like she was ready to burst into tears. “I’m so scared, Mac. We can’t let them find us.” She sat, staring into the fire.
“I been thinking, Rosie, we should really get outta the country—Canada, Mexico. I ain’t got no goodbyes to say here. Whadaya think?”
“Yes. I know the Mafia better than you do, and I say yes. As long as we can get to an Ursuline Convent. That I have to do.” Her small mouth set in a determined line.
“Yeah, the convent. That there is a problem.”
* * * *
On Thursday evening the two State Troopers had been at the Minns’ home for at least two hours. The younger officer gestured toward a chair, “Mrs. Minns, you gotta sit down.” He stood by helplessly as Naoma shrieked and wailed. All he wanted to do was complete her statement and get the hell out of there. The team that had dealt with the stiff in the garage had had it easy.
“Don’t tell me whata do. Where was you when poor Tanky was killed? Murdered in cold blood. Where was the cops then?” Naoma lunged at the officer and started shaking him. “You’re about as worthless as they get. What are you good for?”
It took both the trooper and his partner to detach Naoma and lead her to a chair. One of them brought her a coke. “When did you return home, Mrs. Minns?”
“I done told you fools once. On Thursday mornings I always take Mother Minns for her treatment down to Martinsburg. The kids all go along to K-Mart. We never get home till evening. That’s when I found poor Tanky.” She shrieked again and started to sob.
“Did Mr. Minns have any known enemies?” The second trooper spoke loudly.
“Known enemies!” Try that there sonnavabitch Mac McCabe. He done threatened Tanky with a ballpeen hammer just Tuesday night. You look into what Mac was up to this morning.”
The troopers looked at each other. “Do you have any idea how much cash Mr. Minns kept here?”
“Cash,” Naoma screamed. “Hell, how should I know? But anything you find is mine, hear.”
“Could you tell us who your husband’s business contacts were?”
“Husband! Tanky ain’t never been my husband. That was Elmer Minns, rest his soul, who built up this here garage.” Naoma blew her nose loudly. “No, Tanky was only my brother-in-law.”
“Yes Ma’am, but you being close to him and all, you must have known who he did business with.”
“I don’t know nothing, nothing. I need a drink and a cigarette. Just you look for that bastard, Mac McCabe, I tell you. He’s a maniac.” She turned and left the room.
The troopers watched her stomp away, then turned back to their notes. “Sure looks like a professional job, but that don’t seem possible up here in Morgan County,” the younger trooper looked puzzled. “And which one of them damn McCabes is this Mac?”
“Not sure, but we better call in Sgt. Kincaid. Nate grew up around here. He knows all these twisted family relationships. Besides, he has contacts down in Washington, D.C.”
* * * *
Nate Kincaid’s contact down in D.C., Jett McCabe, sat in his office in front of the computer screen. By now, he’d fleshed out many of the twisted family relationships of the DeMarco crime family. He was going over the homicide report on DeMarco’s latest hit, a small time auto parts butcher named Vito Delucca. Taking a break, he lit a cigarette. Tomorrow, he thought, he’d be up in West Virginia and away from this mess.
* * * *
FRIDAY, MAY 6th: The next morning dawned cold and damp at the campsite along the river. Mac knew there would be rain before noon. Time to pull out. He had another spot in mind. After an hour of dragging their gear through rough country, Rosie and Mac reached several deserted summer cottages in a spot where the river formed a deep pool behind the old power dam. “This here is Briary Bottom,” Mac gestured toward the cottages. “These folks have young kids, so they never show up through the week until summer.” He pointed to the old, rambling cottage closest to the woods.
The cottage was shut down for the season, so Mac had to tinker with the plumbing. He was looking around for tools when he heard Rosie yell from the kitchen. “Mac, Mac, I’ve found everything here to make spaghetti sauce. I’ll make you a real Italian dish. Look, red wine. I even found wineglasses. Bene, bene!”
Later, as they ate dinner, Mac noticed that Rosie had decorated with some white emergency candles and a large water glass of wild flowers. When this was over, he’d buy her a room full of flowers. Mac fingered the stem of his wineglass. This was all great, but right now he’d sure as hell rather have a cold beer with steak and home fries. But he said, “Best damn spaghetti I ever ate. Love it.”
Rosie grinned. “What kind of food did you eat at home, Mac, when you were a kid?”
“When Mom was still alive, we ate good. Lots of game, fish, stuff from the garden. That woman was a worker.” He shifted uncomfortably. “She was on second shift over at the sewing factory, but she still took time to make life good. After she died, things was different.”
“Different?”
“Yeah, well me and Dad managed best we could. I started cooking about that time. Ever had chicken fried squirrel and gravy?”
“You’re kidding.” Rosie grimaced.
“Not a whit. Gotta eat what’s around. ‘Why go to the store?’ my ol’ man always said. ‘Just you run down to the river, boy, and get us some fish.’”
“Where is your papa now?”
“Dead too, most likely. Fact is, I don’t know. Been on my own since I was 17. Stayed off and on with Jett. But then his kid died in an accident and his woman left him, so he started to drink. He wasn’t all that bad to be around then, but when he finally got sober again he turned into a real tightass. Moved down to the city. He shoulda stayed here where he belonged. That’s his problem, not the booze.” He lifted his wineglass. “Nothing wrong with a little drink. To the chef, to Rosie.” He smiled at her. Glancing out the window, he saw a light rain falling. But here in the candlelight, it was fine. He relaxed and pulled out a smoke.
* * * *
“Well, if this just don’t beat all.” Jett McCabe bellowed as he surveyed his cabin on Friday evening. “Toted off my food, stole my sleeping bags, and my flashlights.” He stomped around the small rooms. “All I’m left with is a wilted bunch of redbud blossoms. Takes a damn nerve!” He flung the flowers out the window. “I bet I have that sonnuvabitch Mac to thank for this,” he muttered. “Try to do the kid a favor and this is how he pays me back.”
It took Jett a while to spot the three one hundred dollar bills laying on the table near the empty vase. “Well, will you look at this. Sure lets out my cousin, Mac. Cheap bastard never had no three hundred dollars, and flowers just ain’t his style.” He was still fingering the bills when the phone rang. Picking it up, he wondered who the hell even knew he was here on a Friday.
“Jett, this is Nate Kincaid. You got a minute?”
Jett groaned. Nate Kincaid was a plodding, methodical bastard who’d always rubbed him the wrong way. They had been rookies together years ago.
“This here’s the thing, Jett. We got a problem murder case. You remember Tanky Minns? Could you meet me at Tanky’s place at 7:30 tomorrow morning? I could really use your help.”
“Tanky Minns? Yeah, I remember him. Dead, eh. O.K., I’ll be there, Nate.” Jett groaned again and hung up.
* * * *
SATURDAY, MAY 7th: About 3:00 A.M. Mac awoke suddenly. The glare of headlights flashed through the window into the room. A car drove slowly by and stopped. Alert now, he rolled off the couch and, crouching, moved to the window. “What the hell,” he mumbled. A station wagon loaded with teenagers had pulled in next door. Six-packs of beer were being unloaded amid loud laughter and shouting. A fat kid was tugging at the canoe on the car-top carrier. “Holy shit! They’re here to p
arty.” Mac turned to find Rosie at his side.
“What’s going on?”
“Damn kids. They’re just out raising hell, partying all night. Oughta be home in bed.” He put an arm around Rosie, who was shivering. “Look, we gotta get outta here. Them crazy kids could take it into their heads to crash in here. They’re all about half loaded.” Ironic, he thought. A couple of years ago he’d have been out there with them.
In a half an hour Rosie and Mac had gathered their belongings and slipped out the side door into the woods. The rain had turned to mist and a full moon was trying to break through the clouds. Going was a little rough until they cleared the cottage area; then they used the flashlights.
“I know a real isolated place not far away,” Mac grinned encouragingly at Rosie. “Should have remembered it before. I done some carpentry work for the owner last year. He’ll still be in Florida now. It’s perfect.”
Rosie and Mac reached the house set high above the Cacapon River just as the sun was rising. The river was framed on this side by imposing sandstone cliffs. From the deck they gazed down at white, swirling water, overhung by the new green of willows. “This is so beautiful. It’s like a scene from a painting,” Rosie said.
“It should be safe here,” Mac glanced at the towering cliffs and the twisting river below. God, I hope so, he thought. He knew they had to try to get clean away, and soon.
They walked around the large deck and found a covered hot tub in one corner. “What is this thing?” Rosie asked.
“That there is a hot tub. You fill in with hot water and soak. Relaxes the hell outta you. I used to sneak into the hot tub at the resort. They fired me for all kinds of things, but they never even knew about that.”
“A hot tub,” Rosie said. “I would like to try that one day.”
* * * *
Exhausted, they slept most of the morning. Alone in the master bedroom, Rosie found it hard to sleep in the soft king sized bed. When she finally dozed off, her dreams took her back to the deck over the wild river.
Standing by the hot tub, she dropped her towel and climbed into the steaming water. She sat on a narrow ledge and leaned her head back. The water washed over her and eased the tension away.
Wicked Women and Other Stories Page 10
