Bruno paid the Harriman toll before getting onto the highway, the backcountry and one-lane roads all behind them now.
“So,” Bruno said, “what are we going to do with what’s in the case?”
Sal stiffened. He’d wondered how this was all going to go down. Bruno would want a piece, but how much? Half? Screw that, the big oaf didn’t deserve that much. Hell, the guy didn’t deserve squat. Initially, Bruno had wanted to leave when they couldn’t get into the house. It was Sal’s persistence that got them the diamonds. Bruno would be lucky to get a single carat, as far as Sal was concerned.
“I know a guy who will keep this quiet,” Sal said. “And get us fifty to seventy-five cents on the dollar.”
“Nice,” Bruno said.
“You do know we can’t tell anyone about this, or Falcone will want most of it. He might even be mad enough to have us bumped off.”
“My lips are sealed,” Bruno said, pretending to lock his mouth shut and throw away the key.
“And your wife’s lips?”
“She won’t say a thing.”
“So you’re going to tell her about the diamonds?”
“Well, yeah. How am I going to keep something like this from her? She’ll know something’s up. But don’t worry. She won’t say nothing to no one.”
Sal wasn’t so sure. People talked. Mob wives talk a lot. Even if Bruno and his wife didn’t tell anyone, they would wind up buying stuff—fancy new cars, designer clothes, jewelry, new additions on the house. The list could go on and on, and they were all things that would catch their boss’s attention, as well as others outside the family. Damn, he wished he’d opened the briefcase by himself. He could’ve hidden the jewels and come back for them later.
The more he thought about it, the more he realized there was no way Bruno and his wife would be able to keep it quiet. And if the boss rattled Bruno, he would spill that Sal was involved too. Anyone would, there was only so much pain a person could take.
Sal had planned on retiring from the business in ten years, if he wasn’t locked up or dead by then. He’d have enough saved up to move somewhere far away, like Arizona or Florida. With the diamond haul, he would be able to retire now, and get out while he was still healthy, alive.
Sal squeezed the briefcase between his legs. Bruno would ruin everything.
8
By the time they reached Brooklyn, Sal was ready to scream. He needed a release, the ten cigarettes he’d smoked since getting the SUV fixed had done nothing to calm him. He fought with himself on whether to take Bruno out, his friend, his partner. He’d never felt this way before, and hoped he wasn’t going to have to see a shrink. He and Bruno had found money before, and usually kept whatever they found to themselves. But the diamonds were big-time. Sal would have to inform Falcone about them if he didn’t kill Bruno. It was as simple as that.
The contents of the briefcase were Sal’s future. His daughter’s future.
Bruno needed to die. Tonight.
“So, are the diamonds staying with me or you while you get in touch with this fence you know?” Bruno said.
Sal didn’t like Bruno’s tone. Something about it was off, at least he thought so. He needed out of the vehicle. Sal Diamante was a cool character. He’d stared down gun barrels, faced junkies high on speed, been in jail, gotten hauled in by cops threatening to put him away for life if he didn’t talk, and he’d never lost his cool. Sure, he’d been nervous, but he’d never let them see it. Now he was exceedingly anxious, and he didn’t like it one bit.
“I think I should hold on to them,” Bruno said.
“You saying you don’t trust me?”
“It ain’t that, Sal. I just think they’d be safer with me.”
Sal’s palms grew sweaty. His anger level rose, nostrils flaring. If Sal disagreed, Bruno was going to kill him. He knew it. There was no doubt. It was him or Bruno. One of them was going to walk away alive and rich. The other…
Sal reached into his suit jacket and withdrew his .45. Bruno glanced over at him, eyes wide as Sal pointed the weapon at him. The big guy yanked on the steering wheel. The vehicle lurched left. Sal smacked against the passenger door and inadvertently squeezed the trigger.
The gun roared.
The driver’s-side window exploded, the bullet just missing Bruno’s head.
Bruno drove with one hand on the wheel, his other reaching out toward Sal. The tires screeched as the car swerved, Bruno steering around traffic.
Sal batted away Bruno’s paws. He knew this was it. There would be no going back. Only one of them was going to be walking away alive. He brought the gun up, but Bruno was fast, and shoved his hand up as the gun went off again, sending a bullet into the roof.
“Motherfucker,” Bruno yelled, and launched a fist into Sal’s ribs.
Horns blared as the SUV veered into oncoming traffic. Bruno righted the vehicle, taking his eyes off Sal. The traffic light up ahead was red, a few vehicles stopped, the last one’s bumper approaching quickly.
Bruno swerved the Navigator onto the sidewalk, just missing the last stopped car. Both men were jostled in their seats as the tires hit the curb.
Bruno was driving down the sidewalk, people diving out of the way. A woman pushing a baby stroller popped out of a store. She looked at the SUV barreling down on her and froze, screaming. Bruno’s eyes widened. He turned the wheel and hit the brakes, smashing into the storefront, just missing a homeless man. Both men shot forward, neither wearing seat belts. Airbags deployed, punching them in their faces.
Sal’s trigger finger twitched. The gun fired, sending a bullet into his right thigh. He cried out, the pain wiping away any dazedness he had from the collision. He turned and saw Bruno. The man was covering his nose with both hands, blood leaking between his fingers.
Sal looked through the windshield. People were everywhere, staring, holding up their cell phones, and no doubt recording everything. He glanced at Bruno again, knowing he couldn’t kill him now. Not with so many eyes on them.
Sal put his gun away, wincing. His pant leg was darkening where he’d shot himself. He hoped he hadn’t ruptured his femoral artery.
Grunting, he swatted the airbag down, grabbed the briefcase, and opened the door. He heard the silenced shot a moment later, then felt the impact, as if a linebacker had run into him. He fell forward and crashed to the sidewalk face-first, knocking out his two front teeth. Conditioned to react, protect, and kill, Sal ignored the agony coursing through his body and rolled onto his back. He pulled his .45, still gripping the briefcase in his other hand.
Bruno fired another shot.
The pavement exploded an inch from Sal’s right ear.
Sal brought his gun up and fired. A hole appeared right above Bruno’s right eye socket. His head jerked back, and then his body went limp, gun tumbling to the floor.
Sal lay there, hoping the ambulance would arrive soon. Then he realized he wasn’t breathing, and felt as if a car had been parked on his chest. He’d been too busy worrying about killing Bruno, unable to feel how badly he’d been shot. The bullet must’ve punctured one of his lungs.
He felt cold.
So cold.
He looked to his left, and smiled, seeing he was still holding on to the briefcase.
The Junkie
1
Henry Jones sat against the brick façade of Kilner’s Pawnshop, ass numb from the hard sidewalk. He had the shakes, his skin lined with sweat, face pale, eyes sunken, and lips shriveled. His bones ached. He needed a fix, badly. But with only forty-eight cents in his beggar’s cup, he was shit out of luck.
Withdrawal truly sucked.
Henry owed money to a number of people, including family, friends, and two dealers. No one would lend him another dime, give him credit, or let him work it off. He was in such bad shape he couldn’t even offer to blow anyone for quick cash—he’d tried, but had been turned down.
“Got any change?” he said, holding out his shaky arm, the forty-eight cents jingling, h
oping the pretty lady walking by would add to his savings. Like ninety-nine percent of passersby, the woman paid him no attention. Henry was a blemish on the sidewalk, something that needed to get lost, get a job, or get dead. No one cared, and those that did offered a few coins; at most, a few dollars.
“Got any—” Henry’s words were cut short when he heard the squeal of tires. Half a block to his left, a large SUV jumped the curb, smashing down a parking meter. He thought it might crash into the building ahead of it, but then the SUV swerved and started up the sidewalk.
People screamed and dove out of the way. An elderly woman was shoved to safety by a younger man, her shopping wagon not as lucky as it was crushed under the vehicle’s tires.
Enthralled by the spectacle as if he had been watching a Hollywood movie, Henry remained seated, realizing his life was in jeopardy. The SUV was upon him, and it was too late for him to get out of its way.
Henry’s life didn’t flash before his eyes, like he’d heard happened when people were about to meet their end. His mouth went dry and his bladder released itself. He closed his eyes and rolled into a ball, hoping he’d go out quickly and not have to suffer.
A screech of tires, followed by a deafening crash. The wall his back was against shook, rattling his teeth. He waited for the pain, but none came.
Henry opened an eye, peeking around his forearm.
What happened next was a flurry of activity, including shots fired into a victim on the ground.
A pool of blood was forming around the downed man. He wasn’t moving, his body appeared flaccid. The guy’s face was busted up from colliding with the sidewalk, but the red was coming from somewhere else. Henry had seen men shot before, stabbed, and this much blood wasn’t a good sign.
The man was holding on to a briefcase. Henry’s eyes focused on the object. A warm sensation filled his gut.
Henry glanced around. People were gawking at the scene, but no one dared to approach it. The shooting had most likely kept do-gooders away. He continued to watch the briefcase and the man, who hadn’t moved since he’d killed the driver.
Henry thought for a moment—a luxurious SUV; men in expensive suits; guns with silencers. These guys were definitely heavy hitters.
Sirens blared in the distance.
Henry’s mind raced. His eyes remained on the briefcase. There was something special about it. Probably a shit load of cash within, maybe drugs. His mouth watered, heart pounding with possibilities.
He looked around again. It was now or never. The cops would be here soon.
Henry rose to his feet and took off toward the wreck, feeling a little rejuvenated with each footfall. He took his eyes off the briefcase, the item like a sparkling jewel, calling to him, and glanced up at the SUV, wondering if there was someone else in the back of the vehicle, someone with a gun. His sights fell to the case again, and he didn’t care. The lure of valuables, life-changing valuables, was too great—worth taking a bullet.
He reached the downed man. The guy’s eyes were open, staring lifelessly into the overcast sky. He grabbed the briefcase with both hands and pulled, but the dead man’s grasp held strong. Spooked, but undeterred, Henry yanked harder. The man’s fingers crackled and the briefcase was free.
Damn, Henry thought. The fucking guy died gripping the case with all his might, the muscles taut even after death.
He raced down the sidewalk.
“Hey, that guy just stole something,” a man’s voice said from somewhere behind him.
Henry didn’t look back or slow down. In fact, he moved his legs faster, the long strides sparking memories of his past when he used to run track. He was forty years old now, and apparently still had a little of the athlete in him.
He rounded a corner and knocked into a woman, barreling her over. He didn’t check to see if she was okay, her screams echoing behind him as he continued to run.
He ducked down an alley on his left and came to a fence. He slipped through the slit—one he’d traveled through numerous times before—and bolted through a backyard. A German shepherd charged at him, barking like crazy, but was jerked to a halt when it reached the end of its chain.
Henry passed along the side of the house in a blur. He made it to the street in front and ran across it into another yard, vaulting a low fence. He hurried down another residential street, then up an avenue and down another alley behind a row of stores where he crouched behind a smelly green Dumpster. Out of breath, he bent over and gulped some much-needed air.
Winded, he leaned against the large receptacle. He felt like he’d been jolted with electricity. His head swayed, dizziness coming on, the world spinning. Legs trembling, he held on to the Dumpster, his muscles not used to the work. Nausea wrapped its claws around his gut and squeezed. He fell to his knees, put a hand on the ground, and vomited.
Henry waited a minute, staring at the puddle of oatmeal-looking muck, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He slid a little to his right and sat against the Dumpster, resting the briefcase on his lap.
He studied the case, his eyes falling to the locks, shoulders slumping.
He’d probably have to smash the thing open.
Lifting the briefcase over his head, arms shaky with weakness, he let it fall back into his lap. He was in no condition to work up a sweat again. Maybe his luck had turned upon finding the case, and maybe it wasn’t locked.
He thumbed the latches on either side of the case, and the flap-locks popped open. Relief flowed through him like a fresh fix. He giggled and rubbed his grimy hands together, said a small prayer to a god he didn’t believe in, and then opened the lid.
Henry froze, staring unblinkingly at the contents. His brain had momentarily seized up, like a computer short on RAM.
The briefcase was loaded with hundreds of packets of white powder. Along the inside of the case’s lid were ten syringes, three spoons, and two lighters.
Henry lowered the lid and closed his eyes. He took a few deep breaths, told himself he was losing it. His mind had just played a really mean trick on him and when he opened the case again, he’d find it empty.
Keeping his eyes closed, he opened the lid. “Please be real. Please be real.” He opened one eye, then the other. His heart swelled with joy, a smile spreading across his gaunt face.
With a trembling hand, he reached into the case and touched a packet.
It was real.
He pulled out his pocketknife, the one he’d carried with him since he was a boy, the knife his father had given to him, and sliced open one of the bags. Using his pinky, he licked the tip, slid it into the bag, and then tasted it.
His mouth flooded with the familiar taste of China White, pure heroin. He’d struck white gold. This was the real deal, and why wouldn’t it be? Those men were heavy hitters, the real deal when it came to drug dealers.
Damn, there was enough H here to last him a very long time. Even better, there was enough H to last him a long time and make him some cash, a lot of cash.
A door squeaked open to his left.
Henry slammed the lid closed and locked it before hugging it close to his chest.
A middle-aged Asian man wearing a dirty white apron came from the doorway. He lit a cigarette, taking a long drag. Sounds of clanging pots and pans came from within. A badly faded sign on the building read, LING’S CHINESE FOOD. The guy looked up and saw Henry, the two men’s eyes meeting. The Asian man shook his head, looking annoyed.
“Fucking no-good homeless asshole,” he said. “Get out of here.”
“Fuck you,” Henry said. “I ain’t homeless.” He got to his feet, clutching the briefcase.
The Asian man took another drag. As he spoke, smoke was expelled from his mouth. “You no make your home back here.” He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Get lost.”
“Fuck you. I ain’t doing nothing wrong.”
“You make a mess. Junkie fuck.”
“I’ll leave when I’m ready.”
The Asian man smiled, tilted his head, a
nd then headed over to Henry. “What you got there?”
Henry clenched the case tighter. “It’s mine.”
“You steal it, huh?” The Asian man took another drag, then blew the smoke out of his nostrils.
Henry took a step back as the man came within striking distance. “Stay away from me.”
“That not yours. How about I call police?”
“It’s mine.” Henry moved to shove past the man, but the guy blocked his path.
“Show me what’s inside. We share, okay? No call police.”
Henry stared at the man as he casually smoked his cigarette. There was no way this guy was going to call the police. He wanted the case for himself, especially once he saw what it held. There was only one way out of this.
The Asian man put the cigarette between his lips, then reached out with the speed of a striking cobra and grabbed the case.
“C’mon, man. Let’s see what you got,” he said, while keeping the cigarette between his lips at the corner of his mouth.
Henry wrapped the fingers of his right hand around the briefcase’s handle. With his left hand, he pulled the knife he always carried on him from his pocket, and flipped open the blade. The Asian man’s cigarette fell, bouncing off the case, letting loose an orange coal that slid along the surface as the men fought.
Henry didn’t want to lose the case. No, he couldn’t lose the case. It was his. He’d taken a chance, put his life on the line to acquire it. Its contents were important. For all the shit he’d gone through in life, Henry deserved the briefcase. He was a junkie, low-level fodder, and his finding the heroin was meant to be. The universe had given back—for all the blowjobs he’d performed, the people that had hurt him, for all the dirty places he’d had to stay, for the diseases he’d acquired. This was his chance to get clean. Of course he’d party hard first, one more time. Then he’d clean himself up and use the money he made from sales to get his life straightened out.
Relic of Death Page 3
