by Teri White
The deli was crowded and the fat man behind the counter yelled at him to hurry up and decide what he wanted. Beau settled for a ham on rye, kosher dill on the side, with a cream soda. He took the food back upstairs and sat watching Robert as he ate. It was sort of scary to see how pale and sweaty Robert looked. How vulnerable he seemed. Vulnerable, that was the word. A good word, and one that Beau had never understood completely until that moment.
He chewed the sandwich, which was very good, slowly and listened to the shallow sound of Robert’s breathing.
When it was a few minutes before eight, he leaned over the bed and touched Robert lightly on the arm. “Hey, Robbie? Robbie?”
Robert’s eyes flew open. For just a second his expression was filled with what looked like fear, then he blinked and managed a faint smile. “Hi,” he said.
“You’re supposed to meet that guy Corley at ten,” Beau said.
“Yeah, yeah, right, right. Thanks, Tonto.” He sat up, swaying a little.
Beau kept a firm hold on him until he was steady, then Robert walked into the bathroom and bent over the sink to splash tepid water into his face. He cleared his throat a couple of times and spit.
“Robbie,” Beau said from the doorway, “if I ask you something, you won’t get mad, will you?”
Robert was drying his face on the coarse towel. “I don’t have the energy to get mad. What do you want to ask?”
Beau looked at the floor for a moment, wanting to phrase the question just right. “Would it be so terrible, really, to just forget this whole thing? Would it?”
Robert threw the towel into the corner and looked at him. “You want to crap out on me now, Tonto, is that it?”
Damn. Beau bit his lip. Robert had taken the question wrong, just as he’d been afraid would happen. “No,” he said quickly. “That’s not what I meant at all.” He hit the wall with his fist once and then again. “Crap out? How could I do that? If you say we go through with it, then I’m okay with that. All I’m saying is, it might be a good idea to stop now.”
Robert just shook his head.
“But you’re sick,” Beau said desperately.
“I’ll be fine.” Robert pushed by him and went back into the other room. “I’m going to Brooklyn. You fucking coming with me or what?”
“Yeah, sure, Robbie.”
Robert opened the door and waved him through.
Beau went without saying anything else.
Corley was already eating when they reached the Chinese restaurant. Before they approached the table, Robert paused to take a deep breath and straighten his shoulders. Then he moved forward briskly, followed by Beau. “Corley,” he said in greeting.
The stocky, ruddy-faced man barely glanced up from his bowl of noodles. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”
“Ever try to get a cab to come to fucking Brooklyn?” Robert said in a surly voice. “Suddenly everybody was going off duty and heading the other fucking way. But I’m here now.” Robert sat and nodded Beau into the third chair.
Corley noticed him and evinced just a touch of curiosity. “That your kid?” he said through a mouthful of noodles.
“No” was all the explanation Robert gave him.
A waiter scurried over and poured them tea. Robert decided that maybe one reason he felt so shitty was that he hadn’t really eaten since … well, he couldn’t actually remember the last time. He scanned the menu quickly and decided on cashew chicken. “You want something?” he asked Beau.
“Sweet-and-sour pork, please,” Beau said in the polite, quiet voice he always seemed to use when they were in the company of other people.
When the waiter was gone, Corley took a gulp of beer from the bottle and smirked. “You in some kind of trouble, are you, Robert?”
Robert kept his face expressionless. “Trouble? No, of course not. What kind of trouble could I be in?” Except for the FBI and some private cop on my tail, a few so-called friends who want me to disappear, and a killer headache, what kind of trouble? “I just need what I need, Corley, that’s all.”
“Funny.” Corley’s chin had a coating of grease from the noodles that trailed out of his mouth with each bite. “That’s not what I heard.”
Robert poured some more of the hot, slightly bitter tea for himself and then for Beau. “Just what is it you heard?” he asked carefully.
“That you were definitely in trouble. It seems like a lot of people aren’t too happy with you at the moment.” He smirked again; Corley was a man it was easy to hate. “The golden boy is a little tarnished.” His eyes, which were somewhat more intelligent than you might expect, focused on Robert’s face. “I even heard that maybe there’s a contract out on the number-one contract man himself.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Robert said flatly. He glanced at Beau, who was listening intently. And frowning. Great, spook the kid some more; that was all he needed. He winked at him, and after a second, Beau smiled in response. “Corley, you ever know me not to do what has to be done?”
“Nope. So far, you’re pretty much perfect, I’ll give you that.”
“Fine.”
Corley finished his meal, used the sleeve of his shirt as a napkin, then gestured toward a Bloomingdale’s shopping bag that sat on the floor by his feet. “The merchandise is in there.”
“Okay. Both pieces?”
“Right. And ammo for both.”
“Good.”
Corley slid a small piece of paper across the table. “This is the price.”
Robert unfolded the paper and glanced at the figure written there. “A little steep, isn’t it?”
Corley shrugged. “Hey, you wanted it fast. And you said you’d pay.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Robert took an envelope from his pocket and handed it over to the man. “When you count this, you’ll see that you owe me twenty bucks change.”
Corley went to the men’s room to do his accounting.
“What an asshole,” Robert said, shaking his head.
The waiter finally brought their food. Beau stirred his sweet-and-sour pork thoughtfully. “You’re very good,” he said.
“Very good at what?”
Beau shrugged. “At what you do. Nobody could tell that you feel so shitty. Nobody but me, of course. Corley must think that you’re right on top of things.”
“I am right on top of things,” Robert said. “Don’t you forget that. But, anyway, that’s the first rule of life. Just like the TV commercial says. Never let ’em see you sweat. You remember that, Tonto.”
“I’ll remember, Robbie.”
Corley came back from the can. He paused only long enough to drop a twenty on the table and then disappeared.
Robert smirked, put the twenty back into his pocket, and picked up his chopsticks. “Eat up,” he said. “We have a busy night ahead of us.”
3
First things first.
They needed a car.
Robert knew a guy, he said, who would supply them with one, even at this hour. There was no way of knowing what it would be, of course, your basic transportation or maybe a pimpmobile. But beggars couldn’t be choosers, right?
Right, Beau agreed quickly. He wasn’t going to argue about anything, not now. Robert seemed to be on some kind of roll, filled with energy and power, as if nothing could stop him. If there was something a little frantic about it all, Beau decided to ignore it.
The car salesman, a short, fat black man named Chester, seemed pleased to see Robert and offered him a choice: either an ’88 silver Caddy with furry upholstery, or a pale-yellow VW Rabbit. Robert walked around each car a couple of times, kicked a tire or two, and then looked at Beau. “Whattaya say, Tonto?”
Without hesitation, Beau pointed at the Rabbit.
Robert slapped a hand down onto the hood. “This is it, then.”
Chester grinned, Robert handed him a roll of bills, and they were on the move again.
Robert whistled softly as he drove the car back into Manhattan. Beau watched
him warily. “Where are we going now, Robbie?”
Robert grinned. There was a circle of red on each cheek; otherwise, his face was pale. “Now we’re off to see the man who will probably be able to tell us where Boyd is,” he said with remarkable good cheer. “If he really is in town and planning any action, Uncle Pat will know. A dope like Boyd doesn’t make a move in the Big Apple without checking it with good old Uncle Pat.”
Beau watched an old woman pushing a shopping cart cross the street in front of them. “I have a feeling I’m not going to like this Uncle Pat guy,” he said glumly.
Robert laughed softly and touched Beau’s knee. “’S okay. Nobody likes Uncle Pat,” he said. “Besides you won’t actually be seeing him at all. He doesn’t care much about outsiders. You better—”
“—wait in the fucking car,” Beau finished wearily. “I know, I know.”
The Irish social club was nearly deserted by this time. The members that were left were mostly old men sitting around playing cards. Robert sent a message in with the surly doorman and waited in the cloakroom for Uncle Pat to come out.
In about ten minutes, he did. “Mr. Turchek,” he said, looking not the slightest bit avuncular. “This is a real surprise.”
“Yeah, I know,” Robert said. “I’m at the top of everybody’s most-fucking ‘Wanted’ list. But nobody’s got me yet, so I’m still tending to business.”
Uncle Pat gave a hoarse bark that was supposed to be a laugh. “You know,” he said, “I maybe should call my bookie and put a few bucks down on you.”
Robert shrugged.
“So what do you want?” Uncle Pat said.
“Danny Boyd. I heard he’s in town.”
“Is that what you heard?”
“Hey, Boyd is the man who killed my brother. Are you saying I shouldn’t be after him?”
“I’m not saying nothing like that. You got a right.” Uncle Pat sighed and shook his head. “I only don’t understand how an honorable thing like avenging a beloved brother gets to be so messy. This is very untidy.”
Robert gave him the same response he’d given Marcello. “Life just gets complicated.”
“Uh-hmmm.” Uncle Pat looked at him thoughtfully. “You know, there are people, important people, who wouldn’t be happy to hear that I helped you.”
Robert met his gaze innocently. “Does that really worry you, Uncle Pat?”
Another bark filled the cloakroom. “You always were too damned smart, Robert Turchek.” He produced a calfskin notebook and a silver fountain pen. Carefully he printed something onto the page, tore the page out, folded it, and handed it to Robert. “I have not told you anything,” he said. “Remember that.”
“I’ll remember. Thank you, sir.”
“Take my advice, Mr. Turchek, and be very careful. I always liked you. It would be a shame for a young man like you to meet with a fatal accident.”
Robert nodded.
He left the social club, stepping back out onto the dark sidewalk. Someone grabbed his arm. Robert pulled the newly acquired hand-gun out of his pocket and spun around, all in the same move. His finger was actually twitching on the trigger before he realized who it was standing there.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Beau,” he said in a shaky voice. “I almost fucking killed you.”
Beau was still gripping his arm. “There’s a man,” he whispered. “In the alley. I think maybe he’s waiting for you.”
“What are you talking about?” Robert said, whispering now too.
Beau took a deep breath. “I was waiting in the car, like you said, but it was hot and I wanted a cigarette. So I got out and walked around a little bit. Okay? And then this car showed up, going real slow. It stopped back there and a man got out.” Beau paused for another breath. “I didn’t like his looks, Robbie, so I watched him. I followed him.”
“That was dumb.”
Beau shrugged it off. “He’s on the other side of the building. Just standing there, smoking and watching.”
“He didn’t see you?”
“Nope.”
“Okay. You hang tough right here until I come back for you.”
Beau nodded.
Robert kept the gun in his hand and slipped around the building the opposite of the way he’d arrived. He moved like a cat burglar through the darkness, until he could see the silhouette of the man who was waiting to kill him.
The bastard was holding a glowing cigarette in one hand, a long-barreled gun in the other, and he was staring at the empty Rabbit as if he were expecting the Second Coming to happen right there.
Well, he was going to meet his Maker before very many more minutes had passed, so maybe he wasn’t so far off.
Robert bent and untied his shoes, slipped them off, and moved silently in his stockinged feet.
There was no time for the ambitious assassin to react, even if he knew what was happening. The barrel of the gun was against the back of his head and the bullet hit his brain at almost the same instant.
Robert put the gun away.
Beau was pacing the hotel room again.
Robert ignored him, staring instead at a detailed street map of the city, trying to find the address Uncle Pat had written down. He had less than twenty-four hours to set this up, and he had the feeling that this was his last chance to get Danny Boyd. He couldn’t afford to fuck it up again.
Beau stopped suddenly and looked at him. “I guess I sort of saved your life tonight,” he said.
“Yeah, right,” Robert said, still studying the map.
Beau just stood there for a moment, then he sighed. “I’m going to bed.”
“Good idea.”
He undressed silently, crawled into the bed, and pulled the sheet up over his head, blocking out the light.
After a moment, Robert folded the map. He switched off the lamp, stripped to his shorts by the outside light coming in through the window, and got into his bed. “By the way,” he said then, “thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” Beau replied.
There was a pause and then they both started to laugh.
21
1
Gar had to do a little hard-core detective work to find LaVerne Boyd Ratigliano.
He checked the phone book, found a listing for an L.B. Ratigliano, and took a chance. This was the way things happened for TV dicks, with only an hour (less commercial time) to solve a case, but he didn’t often get so lucky.
The address in the phone book proved to be a small wood-frame house in an Italian section of Brooklyn. He parked his rented car in front of the house and got out. A child’s red wagon blocked the sidewalk and a small yipping dog protested his approach from the front window.
Before he could even ring the bell, the door was yanked open. A tired-looking young woman in blue jeans and a T-shirt, with a baby balanced on one hip, was standing there glaring at him. “You’re a cop, right? And you want to ask me questions about my brother Danny. Am I right?”
“I would like to talk to you about Danny, yes,” Gar said, neatly evading the issue of whether or not he was a cop. “Your brother’s life could depend upon it.”
“Right,” she said sarcastically. “Well, you might as well come in.” She kicked the door open with one foot.
Gar stepped into the hallway and was immediately charged by the little white dog. The dog skidded to a stop and began to sniff vigorously at his pant leg. “Yes, that’s right,” Gar said, bending to pat him. “I have a dog, too.”
“Get outta here,” LaVerne said, and the dog took off.
They walked into a small cluttered living room that smelled of sour milk and wet diapers. LaVerne dropped onto a worn stuffed chair and waved at the couch.
Gar cleared a space in the clean, unfolded laundry and several days’ worth of newspapers. He sat and propped the cane next to his leg. “About Danny,” he said.
“Ah, yeah, about Danny. Let me tell you about that SOB. He just keeps getting into trouble. I thought maybe spending all that time in prison woul
d help, but I guess it hasn’t.” The baby let out a sudden shriek and she shoved a none-too-clean pacifier into its mouth. “For years I worried about Danny, I really did. But it didn’t do him any good and it did me all kinds of bad. Now I’ve got problems of my own. Two kids and a no-good husband doing time for dealing. So I’ve got no more time to worry about Danny anymore. Understand?”
Gar nodded. “I can understand how you feel.” Since there was an overflowing ashtray on the coffee table, he figured she wouldn’t object if he smoked, so he lit up. “You do know, then, that he’s in town?”
“Oh, sure. This was the first place he came. But I wouldn’t have him here. Not with kids around. Danny’s a bad influence.”
Gar decided that if he was ever going to get past the soap opera, he had to be blunt. “I think a hitman may be in town to kill Danny,” he said flatly.
She stared at him. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No. This is not a joke. And whatever you think about Danny, he is your brother. You don’t want to see him dead, do you?”
She shook her head slowly.
“Then I need your help. Do you know where I can find him?”
“No. He was just sort of moving around.”
“Will he be coming back here, do you think?”
She shrugged. “God, I don’t know.”
Gar cursed to himself. “Okay,” he said. “How about any friends?”
“Danny was away a long time. I don’t know whether he has any friends left.”
“Just one name,” Gar said, almost pleading.
She thought for a moment, then her face cleared. “Try Billy McNeer,” she said. “They used to run around together.”
“You have an address for this McNeer?”
It took some time searching, during which time Gar and the baby sat staring at one another. The baby’s eyes looked wiser than its mother’s. LaVerne finally produced a page torn from a child’s writing tablet, upon which she had scribbled an address.
Gar thanked her.
