by Ben Sanders
‘Look, you’ve burned it. See the little black bits.’
‘Sorry. It catches in that pan.’
‘No, you just gotta get to it faster, is all.’
He walked along to his room and got his ten-gauge from beneath the bed, checked the load, and fed in some shells. He always loved that, the hollow thock as they slotted home. He grabbed his trench coat off the back of the door and shrugged it on, checked that his woollen hat was in the pocket.
He headed down the stairs with the gun under his coat and called, ‘I’m going out for a while.’
TWENTY-NINE
Perry
Thirty minutes wasn’t long, and he didn’t want to get there second. He pictured Marie and blasted down Morgan doing sixty, seatbelt jerking when he braked on the cross streets.
It was after four P.M. now, clouds hanging low and turning smoky in the gloom, like somewhere the world was burning. He got over onto Bushwick Avenue and stayed south, turned up Tol’s street just past DeKalb. No boring uniformity around here: the place was a mismatch of clapboard houses, brick apartments and empty lots.
He pulled over a couple blocks south of the diner, outside a place called CHAD’S GLASS, and watched the road in his side mirror, thinking how he should do it. If the guy came in on foot it’d be easy enough. Either shoot him on the way in, or wait for him to get bored, and do him on the way out. Drop the car window and clip him and drive off, easy. Ditch the gun and then burn the Impala upstate. He should’ve done this yesterday, in Connecticut, although the stakes weren’t quite the same. Tol being dead made it righteous, and a threat against Marie was permission to do anything.
You can kill him and feel good about it.
He held the gun two-handed between his knees, pointing at the floor as he watched the mirror, the traffic just white headlights now, features smudged by evening.
He closed his eyes. Come on, think about it: Marshall wouldn’t come in on foot. He had Henry’s car, the Escalade. He’d drive past to check it out, and then come back around. He wouldn’t just walk straight in the front door.
Or maybe he would. Perry thought back to last night, how the guy had broken the Pontiac’s window and then climbed in for a chat, not exactly hot under the collar about anything. Maybe he was cool enough he’d just stroll in and take a seat.
Perry waited for a gap and pulled out into traffic again. Must be coming up on thirty minutes by now. He tried to drive at normal speed, but nothing seems normal when you’re paying close attention. It was either too fast or too slow. He braked to let a truck in off a side street, and that’s when he saw the cop car: a grey unmarked sitting opposite the diner.
He panicked and stomped the brake, and the driver behind did likewise, the whole vehicle rocking forward on locked wheels. Headlights glaring in the back window and the horn at full blast.
Perry swore. Of course there were cops. They’d ID’d Tol’s body. But it was a one-way street. All he could do was keep rolling. He took his foot off the brake and let the car move forward, flicked his lights to high beams so he could see inside the unmarked.
Empty.
It couldn’t be for him. They wouldn’t be so obvious about it, park this close and risk scaring him off. They must be just doing interviews. Probably in there right now, talking to the cook, whatshisname. Goran, the Serbian guy. Hopefully he wouldn’t tell them Tol was running guns on the side. Couldn’t fault his commitment, though, staying open when the boss was dead.
Dumb-ass, you should’ve known there’d be cops. He couldn’t shoot anyone while there were detectives nosing round. He cruised past and pulled to the kerb, twisted around so he could see the diner. There was a woman sitting by the window drinking coffee: a sad picture somehow despite the warm light, just the way she was hunched up, reading something. He couldn’t see any cops, but they’d be back there somewhere, maybe asking questions, maybe waiting to see who showed up at the dead guy’s diner. And where was Ludo? He faced forward again, watching the street in his mirror, the city going bright and electric as he thought about killing.
Ludo
He borrowed his mother’s car, a green Honda Civic hatch. It had lived quite a diverse life by now: first half of its career spent going to church and the store, and now up to all sorts of things. Dexter’s guy Norman had hooked him up with a clean set of New Jersey plates, registered to someone in Hoboken, another old lady who was also bedridden.
He cruised up past the Tol Booth, noticed the cop car parked there, drove a little further and saw Perry sitting in the Impala just up the block. He almost pulled over and talked to him, but it would be too much of a giveaway, a furtive little chat so close to the diner. And of course the dipshit had lost his cell. He drove around the block and came back up the street and parked outside the glass place and left the engine running.
He reached through to the rear seat and picked up the shotgun by the stock and rested it along the centre console. A pistol would’ve been better, but Perry didn’t leave him much time. The ten-gauge had its advantages, though, especially if he had to shoot someone through a car door. Which seemed possible, given Marshall had Henry’s Cadillac.
He watched the road in his mirror, turned the radio on without looking. It was a gospel choir, some holier-than-thou tune, but he never changed the station. His mother would blow a valve if she knew what the Honda was used for, so this was like his way of honouring her wishes, keep things respectable on the music front. Yeah, I’ve done some bad shit, but at least I left the radio on your station. He smiled as he pictured telling her that.
How long’s it been now? Thirty-something minutes, at least. He could feel a headache starting up: for years she’d had these pink air fresheners on all the vents, potpourri scent or something, and the smell was worse than omelet. It must have seeped into the upholstery. He wound his window down for some air, put his arm on the sill, the cold already nearing arctic.
He figured Marshall would drive past first and check it out, whereupon Ludo could slip in behind and bring things to a close. He looked up the street toward the diner, trying to check if the cop was still there, but he couldn’t quite see. He put the car in gear, not a stupid idea to move closer, keep Perry in his sights, but then a white Cadillac Escalade drove past.
Ludo signalled and swung in behind, turned up the Jesus music.
Marshall
He doubted Perry had changed his ways. The man had already made one attempt at killing him, and the chances of a second go probably weren’t too remote, irrespective of what he’d said on the phone about needing help. The fact they were meeting at a diner cued the feeling that everything would turn out fine, but it didn’t mean no one would try to murder him.
He must’ve been about a block from the diner when he saw the car pull out behind him. Hard to be sure in the dark, but it looked like a little two-door hatch. He let the Escalade drift to the right so he could watch the follower in his side mirror. Nothing to see other than headlights, and nothing suspicious either, other than the fact he wasn’t far from the diner, but that alone made him think there could be something to it. He slowed to 25, trying to make out details. Maybe the axe man’s friend, or even Perry himself. Tail Marshall as he did his recon and then shoot him when he got out. Good evening for it as well, low clouds and rain on the way.
There was a stoplight coming up, changing from green to yellow as he glanced at it. He could’ve snuck through, but the guy in front was too cautious and slowed for the red. Marshall checked his mirror again and then unclicked his belt, leaned across the console, and popped the passenger door so it sat just out of the frame. He came to a stop. Only the one car in front of him, a man with two kids in back.
Marshall watched his side mirror. As the vehicle behind drew nearer the rear of the Cadillac obstructed its headlights, and without the glare he could see the car was a Honda Civic, and that the driver’s window was down. Marshall shoved the gearshift in reverse and swapped his left foot to the brake and toed the gas, the tach needle flo
ating smoothly to 2,000.
Still watching the mirror.
The Civic four or five feet back. It probably weighed only fifteen hundred pounds, and he guessed the Escalade would be north of six or seven thousand. Any impact would favour the SUV.
He gave it some more gas and the needle climbed to 3,000, the big car shaking against the brake, right on the cusp of jumping back.
The Honda’s door opened.
Ludo
They crawled along doing 20 or 25 while the guy scoped the scene. Ludo pulled the shotgun across to his lap and jacked a round. He knew this should be easy—wait for the guy to stop, and then get out, fire, and then pump and fire again. Only problem being the Caddy was in front, meaning he could end up blocked in on a one-way street. He figured, though, that most people waiting at a light sit there with the car in drive and their foot on the brake, and if someone kills them, the foot slips, and the car drifts forward. Cue getaway.
They were coming up on a light, yellow, and now red. The Cadillac slowed very gradually and came to a halt. Space was tight. Only the one lane, and there were cars parked along both kerbs. He’d have to get out, step around the door, and then move forward to fire. Awkward, but doable. Two shots and it’s all over.
The Cadillac’s reverse lights came on, sharp white. He saw the truck jolt slightly, a sudden hiccup, like it had been caught by its own brake.
He sat there thinking, turned the Jesus music down a fraction. With the window lowered he could hear the Caddy’s V8, the engine tone cyclic but staying high, as if the guy was dabbing the pedal.
He popped his door. The noise went up a notch. The truck was creeping backward, straining against the brake. If he showed the gun the truck would launch back and probably kill him. Smash the Civic’s engine through the firewall and pulp him in his seat, or slap him backward with the open door. He looked out the window. How long would it take to get clear? Probably not less than two seconds. Far longer than it would take the truck to launch backward and crush him.
Clever boy.
He pulled his door closed and sat waiting.
THIRTY
Marshall
The light went green.
The car in front moved forward and Marshall backed off the gas and put the Cadillac in drive, still watching the Honda as he started across the intersection. He wasn’t sure whether the driver was minding his own business or wanting to kill him. Probably the latter, given that the window was down. People don’t do that in December in New York, unless it’s for a shooting.
He could see the diner coming up on the right, a skinny two-level clapboard place with a white-on-red sign that read TOL BOOTH in fat capitals. Lights on inside, and a woman at the window drinking coffee, a lonely image that made him think of that Hopper painting, Nighthawks.
He kept the Escalade steady at 25, the Honda hanging back now, an unmarked NYPD car over at the left kerb. For a brief moment he wondered if they’d had a tip-off about Perry, or even himself, but then as he checked the line of parked vehicles he saw Perry Rhodes sitting in the driver’s seat of a Chevy Impala. Just his face in the window, head turned and mouth ajar as he watched the oncoming traffic. If the guy had been more relaxed, sat back and watched his mirror, Marshall could’ve missed him.
He maintained his careful 25, Perry staring at him as Marshall tracked him in his periphery, and as the Escalade drew in front, the Impala pulled out so fast it snuck ahead of the Honda, tyres squealing as it shot the gap. Marshall drifted right again so he could watch things in his side mirror, saw the Impala sitting up close on his fender and the Honda hanging back fifty feet or so.
He slowed to 20 as they approached the next cross street, wanting the green light to change. Down to 15, and then 10. Traffic in front shrank away, the green still hanging on. Payback for all those years of hoping for a clear run.
Perry seemed to guess his plan, the Impala sitting right up on his fender, and when the light finally went yellow, Marshall floored the gas, the huge car surging forward as if weightless, a takeoff sensation the way he was pressed to his seat.
He watched the mirror as he flew quietly through the intersection, the light turning red, and Perry must have held his breath and crossed his fingers to make it through like he did, the cross traffic barely missing him. Just the Impala behind him now, the Honda stuck back beyond the junction.
Marshall slowed gently. The passenger door was behaving itself, sitting neatly against its seal, but he didn’t want to brake too hard and make it flap.
He could see the next cross street coming up, Irving Avenue, approaching fast now that he wasn’t doing grandma speed. He drifted left to open the approach angle, and then jerked the wheel at the last second, made the right-hand turn at close to 30. The inside tyres howled as they clung on, pedestrians pausing to watch, a glimpsed shop sign flashing him BODEGA!
He checked his mirror and saw the Impala overshoot, taillights crimson and the front end squashing down as Perry hit the brakes. Marshall felt the Escalade’s back end slipping out, the kerb line drifting nearer as he fought the wheel, teeth clenched as he felt himself right out at the limits of control. He steered left, a cautious, desperate increment, and the rear end of the car swung right as if tugged by magnets, and the passenger door yawned wide as the skid oscillated back the other way. His hands blurred on the wheel as he tried to bring the car straight, the Caddy’s swerves slowly dampening, and finally it came back in line, the door now slightly ajar.
He buried the gas again and checked his mirror as the Cadillac punched forward, saw Perry’s Impala reversing, and then turning onto Irving behind him. Marshall kept the pedal flat and the Escalade barrelled onward, happy at breakneck pace, the engine in a dull murmur. Parked cars whipped past on either side, a subway feeling as he hurtled down that narrow corridor, and he knew if someone stepped out they’d be done.
There were three cars waiting to turn at the end of the block, and he hit the horn to make them hurry, the first in line just pulling away as Marshall stomped the brake. The car shuddered as the ABS did its thing, keeping the tyres off full lock, and Marshall leaned back and steered one-handed, trying to coax the car gently left, and he came to a halt with the Escalade sitting diagonally in the lane and the passenger door hanging open as if held by some unseen concierge.
He shoved the gearshift into park and reached across the passenger seat and gripped the edge of the cushion, pulled his knees to a fetal position and swung his legs across the console into the passenger foot well. He was hauling himself toward the open door as he heard the Impala screeching to a stop, headlights blazing in the side windows and bent shadows of the door pillars moving oddly through the cabin.
He already had his feet on the running board when the Impala’s door slammed, and Perry’s first shot was so close it was like the crack had split the dark. The Caddy’s rear left window shattered. Marshall’s ears rang as he gripped the Escalade’s door pillar and shimmied in a crouch toward the rear tyre, chin on his chest, the massive car hiding him from view. Shots two and three smashed the driver’s window and blew the windshield across the road, and he knew from the trajectory that Perry was moving forward, closing on the driver’s door with each successive squeeze.
Marshall dropped down off the running board, kept low as he circled the back of the Escalade, rounds four and five blitzing more glass. Perry was right up in the kill zone now, going for headshots, a stranglehold on the outstretched pistol. Marshall closed the distance in three strides, Perry swinging around too late, and Marshall caught his wrist in his right hand and smashed Perry in the jaw with his left elbow, folded the pistol from his grip as Perry went down.
He followed up with a right uppercut, just above Perry’s belt line, hard enough to make him placid, far enough south he’d still have some wind. He grabbed him by the back of the collar and dragged him to the Impala, and Perry fell like a dropped bag when Marshall let him go. He opened the rear door and grabbed him again by the collar, shoved him in headfirst, and then
slammed the door on his legs twice before Perry got the picture and pulled them in.
There were two cars stopped behind them, and a third backing up fast, engine in a desperate whine as it retreated, more traffic honking as it approached. Marshall stepped back to the Escalade and opened the driver’s door, hopped up on the ledge and dropped the gearshift into drive, jumped back with a crunch onto broken glass as the SUV began to move forward. He got into the Impala and slammed the door, swung around the rear of the Cadillac as he pulled away, a hard left onto Menahan Street, Perry moaning and the wheels howling through the turn.
Ludo
He must’ve looked like some cartoon come to life, this huge guy in a tiny car, leaning out the window to try and see. He knew what the bastard was doing at the light, slowing down so he could dart through at the last second, and sure enough he floored it on the yellow, and the little Civic didn’t have the boost to keep up.
He sat waiting at Knickerbocker, choking the wheel, breath smoking as he swore in whispers at the cross traffic. He was still sitting there when he heard the shots, five in total, somewhere off to his right. Perry not taking chances.
He inched out stop-start until a gap opened up, and then he hit the gas and slipped through, horn noise tailing off thinly as he sped away. He was pretty sure it was Irving they’d gone down, and when he made the turn the traffic was deadlocked, something at the next intersection choking things up. Hopefully a dead man in the middle of the road.
He leaned on the horn, and everyone squeezed up enough he could move along a few car lengths. He pulled over to the left and snagged a parallel park, solid jolts off both fenders as he shimmied in. Someone’s alarm started blaring. The last thing he needed.
He rolled his window up and tugged the woollen beanie from his pocket and pulled it on, got out and locked the Honda. Then, with the shotgun under his coat, he jogged awkwardly up the street, one arm stiff at his side to keep the weapon upright.
