“Jimmy,” Pitch said. “Why don’t you wait outside with Carla?”
When James Hastie exited the room, Pitch motioned for Harrison to take a chair in front of his desk, waiting until he was seated, before flatly stating, “I want in on the Empire State Building.”
Harrison smiled, set his briefcase on the floor, and said, “I want to be twenty-one again, so what?”
“C’mon, Bobby. What’s it gonna take?”
“You don’t have enough money.”
“C’mon,” Pitch said, grinning. “What’dya want? Railroads? Coal mines? Hell, I own half of West Virginia.”
“There ain’t enough money in the world.”
Pitch stepped over to his desk and leaned forward, arms extended, palms flattened on the desktop. “There ain’t, huh?”
“Goddamn right there ain’t,” Harrison said. He locked onto to Pitch’s stare like a schoolyard bully challenging him to a fight—and for the first time, he noticed the man’s eyes, deep, like a gentle pool of water reflecting bright, dazzling rays of sunshine off its surface.
Harrison looked away, but the dark blue eyes at the edge of his vision pulled at him. He tried focusing on the painting, but the grip would not release him. He looked back at Pitch, but all he could see were those blue eyes of his, glowing like embers, pulsating and filling the room, the room spinning, and then tilting to the side while the contracting walls shifted, and began to move ever so slowly toward him.
“The hell’s going on here?” he said, as words swirled through the air, bouncing off the ceiling and walls, which rumbled closer and closer. He looked around, but there was only Pitch, and Harrison soon began to realize the words resonating throughout the room were his own.
He tried to look away, to turn his head to the side, but he couldn’t avoid those eyes, which had started to change color, fading until they were solid white, and the white turned black as coal. Harrison tried closing his own eyes, but he couldn’t even blink, as a myriad of lilting words faded in and out, lifting and lilting and drifting around the room, until a single refrain echoed through his mind, “Well, now that I have your undivided attention, listen very carefully to what I have to say.”
* * *
Paul Erlicht crossed the polished marble concourse of Grand Central Station. It had been a long but productive day in his office at the Belkman Building. Stocks were rising out of sight, people wanted in; the Bulls were stampeding and Paul was riding them straight to the top. In the last year, he had seen his net worth soar to unprecedented heights. His portfolio was of the highest order, diversified, loaded with hard to come by stocks that were growing by leaps and bounds. Paul wasn’t just making himself wealthy; he had a long list of happy clients, all living the good life courtesy of Paul Erlicht’s business savvy.
He paused by the combination dining room/lunch room/coffee shop, looking in at its ebullient pressed-metal splendor, marveling at the silver and bronze grillwork dividers separating the three sections. Paul lingered for a moment, admiring the black and gold-veined marble lining the walls. He thought about marching up to the lavishly rounded W-shaped lunch counter, but he had a train to catch.
He traversed the concourse, finally arriving at gate 7 fifteen minutes before his train was set to arrive. Pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, he lit one and looked out at the crowd rushing to their own destinations. Then he turned to face the tracks, and saw a well-dressed man standing beside him, muttering to himself.
“What?” he asked. “What did you say?”
“Home,” the man said. “I’m going home.”
Paul looked at him for a moment, taking in the Donegal tweed suit and expensive leather briefcase, the blue and white striped tie and the jeweled stickpin holding the silk tie in place. He couldn’t help admiring the huge diamond adorning the guy’s left ring finger. He looked the man in the face, positive he had seen him somewhere before.
“Pardon me,” he said. “But don’t I know you?”
The man looked past him to the tracks, and Paul took a step to the side—and finally realized who he was. “You’re Robert Harrison!” He could hardly believe his good fortune, because he knew that many a career had been built from chance meetings such as this. He stuck out his hand but Harrison ignored it, and moved a few feet closer to the platform’s edge.
“It’s such a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“Home,” said Harrison.
“Boy, what a day, huh?”
“I’m going home.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Harrison, me too.” Paul took a drag off his cigarette. “Sure made me some money today though.”
Harrison stood at the edge of the platform, still mumbling and fidgeting, his feet stamping up and down, marching in place as Paul Erlicht handed him a business card.
Harrison read the card. “Erlicht, huh?”
Paul snapped to attention. “Yes, sir!” he said, as Harrison turned to face the tracks and the platform vibrated beneath them, a byproduct of the train barreling its way down the iron rails beneath it. “I’m a broker at Faraday and Finch. Got a lot of great things happening over there, Mister Harrison!”
Paul stepped around in front of Harrison, desperately trying to keep the conversation going, but the man had gone back to fidgeting and mumbling to himself, and once again those feet began shuffling up and down.
Then the train whistle sounded, drowning out Paul Erlicht’s patented sales pitch, while Harrison, eyes glazed over, mumbled something about going home, and then dropped his briefcase and jumped onto the tracks, smiling at the oncoming locomotive that gored him like an angry bull, and sent Paul Erlicht’s blood-spattered business card fluttering slowly through the air while those churning steel wheels ripped Robert Harrison’s body to shreds.
* * *
Pitch stared across the desk at James Hastie. It was easy to see why the man’s uncle had valued him so highly. He was cunning and ruthless, fearless and handy with a gun. He killed without remorse, and rarely questioned orders. He was a valuable asset, someone handy to have around. But there were questions, questions which soon would be answered.
“Here you go, Jimmy,” Pitch said, pushing a shot glass across the desk, smiling as Hastie leaned forward.
Hastie smiled nervously. “Thanks,” he said, and set the glass on the desk.
“Your uncle’s quite a character, isn’t he?” Pitch said.
“He’s somethin’, all right.”
“We’re gonna do some good business together, he and I. I’m going to make him a lot of money.”
“Geez, I hope so. Those guys don’t play around.”
“Well, they’re playing now, Jimmy.” Pitch leaned back in his chair, laughing heartily as he called out, “They’re sure the fuck playing now!”
Hastie squirmed in his seat. Louie Boccianni didn’t fuck around, and the people he worked for were strictly business. As long as the money kept rolling in they’d be plenty happy, but if something happened, Jimmy sure as hell didn’t want to be in the middle of it. Which was exactly where he was now.
“So, what’re you up to tonight?” Pitch asked him. “Little bit of booze? Pick up a couple of broads?”
“Got me a poker game over in Harlem.”
“Ah, poker.” Pitch smiled. “I’m quite the poker player myself, you know.”
The last thing Hastie wanted was for Pitch to come along, but he asked him just the same.
“No, Jimmy. I’m going out to Westport and see if I can’t hook a couple of them country club boys.” Pitch winked. “You go ahead on to your game.”
When Hastie left the room, Pitch swiveled around in his chair and looked up at the Renoir. It really was a work of art, and he knew it. He’d just been trying to goad that stuffy old bastard into a confrontation.
Pitch stood and walked to the window, waiting for Hastie to appear on the sidewalk. He’d once had high hopes for Jimmy Quick, and had actually considered taking him under his wing. But after that thing with William Jennings’ grand
son, he wasn’t so sure about the young gangster. Sure, Hastie could whack a guy—no problem—but when it came down to cases, he’d faltered. Soon he would take his protégé to West Virginia and put him to the ultimate test. He hoped for Jimmy’s sake that he passed.
He returned to his desk, poured himself a shot of tequila, and sat down. His had been a lonely existence. Those first thirteen years, drifting around the country with his sack full of jewels, finally ending up in New Orleans. Gambling and whoring night after night, the days turning to weeks, the weeks to months. Watching people age while he remained the same, until all of a sudden he found himself walking back up that mountain.
It was in New Orleans that he learned the true meaning of Scratch’s words, holding a measly pair of fours in a poker game, piling chips in the middle of the table to flush the last remaining player after the others had chickened out.
Pitch remembered it like it was yesterday: the smug look on Charlie Cobb’s face as he tossed in his handful of chips, making Pitch want his money all the more, Pitch looking down at his pathetic cards, and then staring across the table into his confident opponent’s eyes, watching as his eyes glazed over and Pitch’s mind called out, fold… fold… fold!
He would never forget the look on Cobb’s face when he tossed in his hand, like he couldn’t believe he was doing it.
That night on the mountain, all those years ago, Scratch told him he would have power over men, but he’d never understood until Charlie Cobb folded his three Jacks just what that had meant. Over the years he’d found that no one could resist his blazing blue eyes. Good old Charlie had found that out, and countless others since.
Pitch looked down at the signed contract lying on his desk.
Today, Robert Harrison found out the hard way what many others had learned over the years: you don’t fuck around with William Pitch.
Chapter Ten
Vonda stood by her desk, watching her seventh grade English class read their texts. Fifteen minutes from now the bell would ring. Then there would be lunch and the rest of the afternoon classes. She was just about to chastise Tommy Barnes and Ronnie Mays for carrying on a conversation at the back of the room, when the door opened, revealing her husband standing in the hall with Principal Brooks. Earl looked at her, and then cast his eyes toward the floor, causing Vonda to hurry to him.
“Vonda,” Earl said when she stood before him. “Harold Bryson just called me.”
“What?”
“Baby, your parents are dead.”
Vonda’s knees weakened; her head felt light.
“My God, Earl,” she said, as her husband put an arm around her shoulders and led her down the hallway.
* * *
Doc Fletcher, nursing a beer in Kelly’s diner, grinned at the nervous-looking mayor sitting across the table from him. Teddy Levay had been anxious ever since John Chambers’ untimely demise. He’d worried about appointing the newcomer Sheriff over Alvie Ross, worried about Jimmy Tomlin keeping his trap shut, and now he was worried about Pitch.
Fletcher, shaking his head, pushed an empty plate to the center of the table.
“Teddy,” he said. “The fuck’s wrong with you?”
“I just don’t like this shit. Goddamn Tomlin actin’ half crazy, babblin’ like he’s touched in the head or something.”
“I thought you and the judge straightened that boy out.”
“Hell, me too. Especially after Pitch came to town and had a talk with him.” Levay twisted around in his seat, calling out to Patsy Kelly to bring him another beer, and Patsy grabbed a bottle from the cooler and headed his way.
“But?” Fletcher prodded.
“Tomlin came by the other day.” Levay took the beer from Patsy, thanking her as she walked away. “He’s scared. Thinks if Chambers figured it out, Earl or Alvie Ross might, too.”
“Hell, Teddy.” Fletcher looked around the room, lowering his voice to a whisper, “Earl don’t know shit about what happened to those kids. That’s why we made him sheriff.”
“That’s what I told that stupid fucker, but he just pointed at his face and said ‘look at my nose, look at my nose’.”
“Well, he may have somethin’ there, Teddy.” Eyes twinkling, Fletcher added, “I’ve damn sure never seen one like that. Looks like somebody hit it with a goddamn sledge hammer.”
In spite of all the nervous apprehension that had built up inside him, Teddy Levay laughed. Then he filled his glass with beer, gulped some down and belched.
“Teddy, Teddy, Teddy.” Fletcher shook his head again.
“What?”
“You can take the hick outa the Holler, but…” Fletcher smiled, raising his eyebrows.
“Oh, fuck you, Doc,” Levay said, and both men started laughing. “Anyway, we got bigger problems than Tomlin.”
“Like what?” Fletcher said, and then waved to Bobby Dillon, smiling as the old coal miner exited the diner. He looked back at Levay, frowning at the dead serious look on his face. “What?”
“It’s Pitch. He called me last night. Said he was fixing to test our mettle.”
“Test our mettle?”
Levay drank some beer, and poured the remainder of his bottle into the glass.
“Said we’re gonna have to participate this time.”
“Participate?”
“Participate!” Levay said, and then struggling to keep his voice low, “What are you, a fucking parrot?”
“Sorry,” Fletcher told him, then, steepling his fingers beneath his chin: “What do you mean, this time? I thought that was a one-shot deal.”
“Yeah, me too.” Levay fidgeted with the label on his beer bottle, nervously peeling strips of paper away as he looked Fletcher in the eye. “Doc, he said it ain’t never gonna be over.”
“What?” Fletcher looked shocked. He, Levay, Judge Croft and the others had split a small fortune between them. It had been hard, living with what they’d done, but times were tough, money was scarce.
“That’s what he said.”
“I don’t believe this shit,” Fletcher said, brushing a strand of sandy-brown hair away from his forehead. “These people ain’t gonna stand for that again.”
“Yeah, Doc.” Levay looked down at the nickel-sized scar on his left palm that had mysteriously appeared the last time he’d met with Pitch. “You tell him that.”
“Hell, Teddy. We looked the other way when those kids disappeared. He’s got Tomlin to do the dirty work. What else does he want?”
“Beats the hell outa me,” Levay said, and then took a long drink of beer. “What do you think he did with them kids, anyway?”
“I know what you know. Tomlin snatched ‘em and took ‘em up to Pitch’s mansion.” Fletcher breathed a heavy sigh. “I tried to get Jimmy to tell me, but he said he didn’t know what happened to them.”
“That little bastard knows something,” Levay said as he piled torn bits of paper onto the table. “That’s why he’s so goddamn scared.”
Fletcher shook his head. “Jesus,” he said.
“I know. Goddamn Tomlin acting all squirrelly, Croft all over my ass—every goddamn day—Pitch swooping down like some kind of phantom. And that lump, Doc… what about that fucking lump? It’s getting bigger, you know.”
“Gee, Teddy. I don’t know what to tell you. I figured it for a case of the mumps or something. Hell, I thought it would’ve gone away by now.”
“Well, it ain’t. It’s getting bigger.”
“Aw, shit, look over there.” Fletcher nodded toward the door, where Reverend Carlton Stone and Marty Donlan had just entered the diner, driving home the point that, here Fletcher was sitting on a shit-pot full of money, and he still couldn’t get his pharmacy built. And that just chafed his ass, big time.
“Yeah, the preacher and his puppet.” Levay watched them take a seat at the counter. “You didn’t hear his sermon last Sunday. Going on about money and the root of evil, Jesus busting up the temple and driving all the wealthy merchants the hell outa there. Getting
those farmers and miners all worked up.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Son of a bitch looked right at me and started talkin’ about the rich man and the camel goin’ through the eye of the needle… He’s up to something.”
“Yeah, well, I heard something else about the good reverend.” Fletcher gave Levay a whimsical look. “He’s been talking about running for mayor next go ‘round.”
“My ass,” Levay said, his face turning redder by the second as he downed the rest of his beer. “The good reverend keeps fucking around, he might not make it ‘til then.”
Chapter Eleven
The events surrounding John Chambers’ death had taken a heavy toll on Jimmy Tomlin, and hearing about what Mary Wright had done to herself had put a cold lump in his gut. He’d nearly been caught, and had Chambers lived, Jimmy had no doubt what the outcome would have been: Teddy Levay, Judge Croft and himself, swinging from the nearest tree. As it was, his nose would never be the same, and he was damn lucky that was all that happened to him.
Jimmy stood behind the bar of Jimmy T’s, staring out the window as people walked by. Occasionally a coal truck would rumble past, or a car would slow down to cross the railroad tracks.
He had all but decided to take his money and leave town once and for all, but Teddy Levay talked him out of it. Judge Croft had put a calm and reassuring arm around his shoulders, assuring him everything would be all right now that the sheriff was gone. After all, nobody else even talked about those kids, and even if Chambers or Alvie Ross had told Earl Peters, he couldn’t know much about it. Not enough to trouble them.
Just when Tomlin thought he’d gotten over it, and his life was getting as back to normal as Jimmy Tomlin’s life could get, Teddy Levay walked into his tavern, dragging Pitch behind him. Pitch, fit and trim as ever, his dark blue eyes blazing, just as they had the night they’d met. He hadn’t changed a bit since the last time Tomlin had seen him, not a wrinkle or a gray hair. When Pitch offered his hand, and cast his eyes upon him, Jimmy knew that nothing would ever be right again.
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