Kings of Midnight

by Wallace Stroby

  She bent, picked up Taliferro’s gun, set it on the sink. He lay still, eyes open, unblinking.

  She took the razor from the sink, opened it. “Turn around.”

  Benny rolled to his feet, looked over his shoulder. She sliced through the flex-cuffs.

  “Marta,” he said.

  “In the other room. She’s fine. Stay here, until I—,” but he was out of the door and down the hall, calling her name.

  She went to the stairwell. Bruno lay halfway down the steps, facing the wall. She stepped over him, stooped to get his gun, took the rest of the stairs two at a time. A corridor at the bottom, a doorway on the right that led into the dim bar.

  She put the revolver in her pocket, went in with the Glock up, felt the breeze. The front door was open wide. Footsteps outside, slow and clumsy.

  She went to the door. A man on crutches was clambering down the sidewalk. She could hear his labored breathing.

  He rounded the corner, making for the town car. She followed him. He had his back to her, was fumbling with the crutches, pulling a set of keys from a pants pocket, trying not to fall over.

  “Stop,” she said, and raised the gun. He froze. A crutch clattered to the street.

  Without turning, he said, “Don’t shoot me.”

  “Lose that other crutch. Then come around slowly. Lean back against the car.”

  He raised his right arm, and the second crutch fell away. He turned and slumped back against the trunk of the Lincoln. He was powerfully built, but his face was pale and wet. She held the front site of the Glock on the V of his open shirt, where a gold cross nestled in chest hair. She could see the butt of a gun in his waistband.

  “Not like this,” he said. “Please.”

  She closed the distance, keeping the Glock on him. “Take that out. Slow.”

  With his weight on the trunk, he pulled the automatic free with two fingers.

  “Lose it,” she said.

  He tossed the gun into the gutter. The chrome finish glinted in the moonlight. She kicked it into a storm drain.

  “Any more of you around?” she said.

  “What?”

  “More of Taliferro’s crew. More like you.”

  His shook his head. He was trying to catch his breath. “Just me.”

  “Put your hands on the car.”

  He turned awkwardly, leaned on the trunk. She came up behind, patted him down with her free hand, took the keys from his fingers.

  “Danny was going to kill us all,” he said. He drew in breath. “Him and Sal. They wanted the money for themselves. No way was he going to split it with us. I knew that.”

  “You were right.” She backed away. “Turn around.”

  He faced her. “The others?”

  She shook her head.

  He looked away, weary. Up at the moon, then back at her. “Go ahead.”

  “Here’s the problem,” she said. “If I leave you alive, sooner or later, you might decide to come after me, come after that money.”

  He shook his head. “I won’t.”

  “That’s right, you won’t. Which leg were you shot in?”

  “What?”

  “When Roth shot you. Which leg?”

  He exhaled, resigned. “Left.”

  She lowered the Glock, shot him through the right calf. He cried out, went down hard into the gutter. The echo of the shot rolled up the empty street.

  She bent, picked up the shell casing. He was moaning, holding on to his leg with both hands.

  “Two ways this can go,” she said. “I call the paramedics when I’m done here, get you some help. Or I come back and finish it. It’s up to you. Understand?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut, water leaking out.

  “Understand?”

  He nodded, face tight with pain. “I understand.”

  “Then stay where you are. And be quiet.”

  She looked up and down the street. Dark buildings, shuttered doors, a no-man’s-land. No light but the moon high above.

  She went back inside.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Upstairs, Benny and Marta were in the hallway. He was holding her tight, her head against his shoulder, their faces pale in the overhead light.

  “You two all right?” Crissa said.

  Benny said, “I think so. Where’s Dominic?”

  “Outside. He won’t bother us. You wait here.”

  She went past them, into the bedroom. Perry lay where he’d fallen, the floor around him dark with blood. His eyes were open, but there was no movement, no breath.

  She knelt, turned her face away, went through his pockets. She found a keychain, drew it out. Ford keys, for the Explorer.

  The shell casing from the Glock lay alongside the mattress. She put it in her jacket pocket. Out in the hall, she found six more.

  To Benny, she said, “Take a good look around, see if there’s anything up here that belongs to either of you. Make sure you get your cell. We don’t want to leave anything behind.”

  She went into the bathroom, stepped over Longo’s body, found the last two shell casings. They clinked in her pocket.

  The Glock in her belt, she went back downstairs. There were about a dozen liquor bottles on the mirrored rack behind the bar top. A pool table in the middle of the room, cover stretched over it. A dark jukebox in the corner.

  She went out, searched both vehicles, looking for anything that would tie them to Benny or her. Dominic had propped himself against the back tire of the Lincoln, was holding his leg, watching her.

  In the Explorer, she found two guns in an overnight bag, an envelope full of cash in the glove box. She thumbed through it. Ten grand, maybe. Their traveling money. She left the guns, took the envelope.

  No money in the Lincoln. She found another pistol in the trunk wheel well, along with a roadside emergency kit. She opened it. Inside was a can of Fix-A-Flat, two road flares, and a flashlight. She took the flares, shut the trunk.

  “What are you going to do?” Dominic said.

  She dropped the Lincoln keys into his lap.

  “I changed my mind,” she said. “You’re on your own. Sooner or later, you might be able to get up the strength to get in that car, figure out a way to drive out of here. If not, you can wait for the police. I don’t care.”

  “What do I tell them?”

  “That’s your business. But if we cross paths again, you’ll wish you were back in there with the others. Got that?”

  He nodded wearily. “I got it.”

  She tossed the Explorer keys into the storm drain, left him there, went back inside.

  Benny and Marta were down in the bar. He had his arm around her shoulders. They were huddled together as if for warmth.

  “Where’s your car?” he said.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “I can’t go back up there,” he said. “She won’t go, and I can’t leave her alone.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Please. We’re cold.”

  She told him where the car was. “Stay off the main streets. I’ll meet you there, but I need a few minutes.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it.”

  When they were gone, she went back upstairs. She pushed Longo’s body away, shoveled all the money back into the duffel bag, zipped it shut. She left it near the stairs.

  In the bedroom, she pulled the sheet off, used her knife to slice through the mattress. She pulled stuffing out, tried not to look at Perry’s body, the pool of blood.

  She put the knife away, went back in the hall, took one of the flares from her jacket pocket. She slid off the plastic sheath, reversed the striker cap, got it lit on the second try. It hissed, began to spew sparks and white magnesium smoke. She tossed it onto the mattress. It caught at once, the flames lighting up the room, shadows dancing on the walls.

  The hall was filling with smoke. She took a last glance into the bathroom, then picked up the duffel, carried it downstairs, past Bruno’s body.

&nbs
p; In the bar, she went behind the counter, swept all the bottles onto the floor. They shattered on the wood, contents running together, the smell of it rising up.

  She lit the second flare at the door, tossed it over the bar top into the pool of alcohol. It blazed up blue and yellow, flames tracing the path along the floor where the liquor had flowed. The bar mirror reflected their light. Smoke began to gather beneath the pressed tin ceiling.

  She slung the bag over her shoulder, went out, left the door open to feed the flames.

  A block away, she felt the first tremor. It started in her right hand, spread up her arm. She opened and closed her hand, felt the muscles spasm and flutter. She was shaking. She squeezed her fist tight until it stopped, turned to look back.

  The first-floor windows of the Victory were illuminated from within, a leaping red glow like a thing alive. Upstairs, smoke was seeping from the boarded-up windows, flames creeping along the edges of the plywood.

  One of the first-floor windows popped and collapsed, flames licking out. The torn awning caught, began to smoke. Flames sprang up, the faded lettering turning black, then disappearing. The entire awning went up almost all at once, the glow of it lighting storefronts along the street.

  When she reached the car, they were waiting there together. She dropped the duffel at their feet. “This belongs to you,” she said. “It’s what it was all about, remember?”

  Benny looked down at it. Neither of them moved.

  “Take it,” Crissa said. “It’s yours. You earned it. No one’s going to come looking for it anymore. If you don’t take it, I will.”

  Smoke was drifting up over the buildings, past the moon, high into the sky. She heard the first sirens, coming from somewhere deeper in Brooklyn.

  “Make up your mind,” she said. “We’re running out of time.”

  “She’s right,” Marta said.

  Benny looked at her. “What?”

  “Take it.”

  “Smart girl,” Crissa said. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  Their first stop was Bay Ridge, to get the Honda. It was a block away from what would be a homicide scene. If anyone ran the plates, it would be a link back to her.

  When Benny and Marta got out, Crissa said, “Meet me down at the house. I have to make a stop first. If you get there before me, just wait.”

  Benny looked dazed, tired.

  “You okay to drive?” she said.

  “I don’t know.”

  Marta said, “I’ll drive.”

  “Good,” Crissa said. Then to Benny, “You want to take that duffel with you?”

  He looked at the trunk, then back at her, shook his head. “No. I trust you. And after all this, I don’t want to get stopped in Brooklyn, have some nosy cop find it.”

  “Smart.”

  “Getting there,” he said.

  * * *

  Halfway across the upper level of the Verrazano, she pulled over, put her hazards on. It was 3:00 A.M., the traffic sparse.

  She left the engine running, got out. Cold up here, wind whining around the suspension cables. She could feel the roadway sway beneath her. In the distance, back the way she’d come, a pulsing light, thin smoke drifting past the moon.

  A car flew by in the opposite lane, a blur of metal and light. She stepped over the guardrail to the outer railing. Now she could see the water some five hundred feet below, the blue light of the bridge reflected on its surface.

  There would be surveillance cameras up here, maybe someone watching her even now. She would have to be quick.

  She held the Glock below her waist, ejected the magazine, and dropped it into darkness. Then she disassembled the gun by feel, tossed the pieces out into the void. The shell casings were next, the wind catching them almost as soon as they left her hand. They clinked against the metal supports, disappeared.

  A car blew past her, horn blaring. She tossed Benny’s phone, then her own. Their last links to what had happened at the Victory.

  Another car sped by, narrowly missing the Taurus. Enough risk for tonight, she thought. Time to go home.

  She got back in the car, killed the hazards, put her signal on. She waited for a car to pass, then pulled out after it. The darkness of Staten Island ahead, then Jersey. Brooklyn behind her, a red glow in the night.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  She woke just after dawn, aching all over, and with a deep soreness in her hips. But the pain in her stomach was gone.

  She made coffee, drank it in the kitchen, giving them time to sleep. When she was done, it was after eight. She knocked lightly on the bedroom door.

  After a moment, Benny opened it. He looked ten years older, his eyes red beneath the glasses. Behind him, Marta lay asleep on the still-made bed, fully dressed, her back to them. The duffel bag was on the floor.

  She motioned for him to come out. He closed the door gently behind him.

  “Time to be on the road,” she said. “The sooner the better. I’ll drive you. Where were you headed?”

  “New Haven. To catch a train.”

  “I’ll take you. But that duffel’s no good for traveling. It’ll attract too much attention. Use these.” She nodded at the two new suitcases on the floor. She’d emptied them out, put all her money back in the other duffel.

  “Put some clothes on top in each, enough to pass a casual inspection,” she said. “When you get where you’re going, do what I said—salt some away in safe deposit boxes. That way you know you’ve got a stake somewhere if things go sour. What you do with the rest is up to you.”

  “Thanks. What about the car?”

  “I’ll take care of that.” She looked at her watch. “I want to be out of here in an hour.”

  “All right.” He looked back at the bedroom door.

  “She can sleep on the train,” Crissa said. “Better for both of you to be on the move.”

  “It was a rough night for her.”

  “For all of us,” she said.

  * * *

  At noon, they were in New Haven. The sky was gray, rain spotting the windshield. Crissa steered the Honda to the curb outside Union Station. There were cars ahead of her, a taxi queue to the left. Benny and Marta were in the backseat, their suitcases in the trunk. Her own duffel was back there, too. It felt safer to have it with her.

  “Let me go inside and see what the schedules are,” he said. “I’ll leave our bags here, be right back.”

  “All right,” Crissa said.

  He opened the door, touched Marta on the shoulder. “Wait here, baby. I’ll be back in a sec.”

  Crissa watched him go inside, people streaming around him.

  She looked at Marta in the rearview. “You have family?”

  “Parents. In Indiana.”

  “You going back to see them?”

  “Someday. Benny says we need to get settled somewhere else first. Then we’ll find a way.”

  Crissa watched the front entrance. They’d passed the New Haven police station less than a block away. She had a sudden image of cops coming out the doors of the terminal, surrounding the Honda, guns out.

  “Is that right?” Marta said. “What you said last night? About nobody looking for us anymore?”

  “Probably.”

  “That’s not very reassuring.”

  “Maybe not. But it’ll have to do.”

  Benny came back out, a ticket envelope in his hand. Crissa powered down the passenger window. He leaned in, said, “We’re in luck. There’s an Amtrak leaving in twenty-five minutes for—”

  “I don’t want to know,” she said.

  He looked at her for a moment, then smiled. “All right, then.”

  She popped the trunk, got out. Benny set the first suitcase on the curb. He looked around. “Where are all the redcaps?”

  “Wrong decade,” she said. She pulled the second one out. When all four bags were lined up at the curb, she said, “Wait a minute.”

  Her back to them, she leaned into the trunk, unzipped her duffel, took out t
he black velvet bag with the red drawstring, the diamond necklace and bracelet inside.

  She lobbed it at him. He caught it in front of his chest.

  “What’s this?” he said.

  “Wedding present. Keep them, sell them, whatever. They’re yours.”

  He weighed the bag in his hand, looked at Marta, then back at Crissa. “Thanks.”

  “You’re going to miss your train. And you’ll want to keep an eye on those suitcases. Be a shame to lose them at this point.”

  “You’re right,” he said.

  Marta looked at her. “Thank you.”

  “Go somewhere far away,” Crissa said. “Keep your head down. Stay safe.”

  He bounced the bag in his hand. “Then I guess this is it. Again.”

  “It is.” She shut the trunk lid.

  “Like I said, I wish I’d known you back in—”

  “Your train.”

  “Right.” He put the bag in a coat pocket, picked up two of the suitcases. “I guess we’ll be seeing you.”

  “No,” Crissa said. “You won’t.”

  She watched them go into the station together, carrying their bags, but staying close, shoulder to shoulder. She stood there for a while. Then she got back behind the wheel.

  * * *

  She returned the Honda at an agency near Newark Airport, got them to call a limo to take her back to Avon.

  She waited on a plastic chair in the office, watching rivulets of rain on the plate glass, the duffel at her feet. When the limo drew up, she hoisted the bag, went out.

  The driver got out, opened the trunk, reached for the bag.

  “No,” she said. “I’ve got it.”

  “Okay, ma’am,” he said. He was dark-skinned, had a lilting African accent. “It’s up to you.”

  He shut the trunk again, opened the rear door. She put the duffel on the seat, got in after it.

  Heading south on the Turnpike, she saw he was watching her in the rearview. She knew how she must look. She was exhausted, sore. She’d sleep for a few hours, then bring Jimmy his money, and call Rathka. See about a plane ticket to Texas.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said. “But that’s most unusual.”

  “What?”

  “That bag you are carrying. It’s not a ladies’ bag at all. No good for clothes, I would not think. I have never seen a woman like you carrying one.”