Cold Shot to the Heart

by Wallace Stroby

  “Consider it done.”

  She stood. He got up, went to the door, waited as she put on her jacket and scarf. The envelope went into an inside pocket.

  “I’ll call you as soon as I hear back,” he said. “You have a new number yet?”

  “Soon. I’ll call, give it to Monique.”

  He opened the door for her, put out his hand. She shook it.

  “When you talk to him…” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “Tell him we’re doing our best.”

  “I will,” she said.

  * * *

  She took the subway uptown, the 1 train packed with tourists and holiday shoppers. No empty seats. She worked her way to the end of the car, grasped the vertical pole. Across from her sat two Asian girls, barely in their teens, clutching hard plastic cello cases. To her left stood a well-dressed man in his forties, suit and overcoat, dark hair flecked with gray. He reached up to grip the pole above her head, gave her a bemused smile and looked away.

  Four people got off at 50th Street, but twice as many squeezed on, forcing her closer to the man in the suit. Soon she was sweating freely from the heat in the car, the headache still nagging her.

  At 59th, more people crowded in, including a man in his twenties wheeling an upright bicycle. The doors closed twice on the rear tire, bonged, and opened again. He pulled the bike in farther, embracing the frame like a lover, people wordlessly shifting to make room. As the doors closed, he met Crissa’s eyes, then looked away. She studied him anyway, half from practice, half from boredom. He was shaven-headed, wore glasses with thin black frames. The Moby look, a style half the men in the city under fifty seemed to affect these days.

  The train lurched out of the station, people swaying with the motion, and the man in the suit bumped hard against her. “Excuse me,” he said. He reset his grip on the pole, his hand brushing hers for an instant.

  At 66th, the Asian girls got off, maneuvering their cello cases through the crowd and onto the platform. Their seats were taken instantly. When the doors opened at 72nd, there was a communal groan as more people pressed in. She caught a glimpse of a cop on the platform, a leashed German shepherd lying at his feet.

  They pulled out of the station, and as the car accelerated, the man in the suit bumped her again. He looked at her and smiled. “Sorry.”

  Enough of this, she thought. Too many stops to go to put up with it. She let go of the pole, moved through the car, squeezed past the man with the bicycle, reached the connecting door and pulled it open.

  The next car was no better. She found a spot at the far end, beside a Mexican worker listening to an iPod. He shifted to give her room. She gripped the pole with her left hand, watched the tunnel walls blur past the windows.

  Seventy-ninth. Four more stops to go, three if she got off at 103rd and walked. People filed out of the car, and an equal number seemed to get back on, filling the gaps they’d left. An old woman sneezed loudly.

  Crissa faced the doors, her headache worse now. Someone bumped into her from behind, drew away. She turned to the left, saw the man in the suit. He met her eyes, smiled.

  She looked away. The car was too crowded for her to move any farther. The train swung into a jostling turn, lights flickering, people holding on, and the man closed the distance, bumped her hip again, held it longer this time before pulling away.

  “Back off,” she said. When she turned to him, there were only inches between them. He pointed down. She looked, saw the erection pushing through the material of his pants.

  She felt heat in her face, looked away. No one else around them had noticed their exchange. She tried to move to her right, couldn’t.

  The car rattled and swayed as it entered another curve, picking up speed. She knew what was coming, how the vertex of the turn would bunch everyone together before the track straightened. She flexed her fingers, gripped the pole tighter.

  The lights blinked again. In her peripheral vision, she saw the man draw back, ready to let the momentum of the car take him. He knew what was coming, too.

  The train swung wide, and as he swayed toward her she let go of the pole, brought her left elbow around and down hard, twisting her hips into it. She felt the impact, his nose giving way. He fell back as the train came out of the turn, the crowd holding him up. People pushed him away in irritation.

  The train slid into the station, the doors hissing open. She stepped out onto the platform, looked back, people streaming around her. She saw the man fall in stages, his eyes unfocused, blood pouring from his nose. He slumped to the floor. A Hispanic girl in a pink vinyl jacket got on, looked down at him, said, “Gross.” The doors closed, and the train pulled away.

  Crissa went up the stairs and out onto Broadway. Almost dark now, the rain slanting down.

  Halfway down the block, she noticed the blood smear on her left elbow. She got a Kleenex from her pocket, wiped at the leather until it was clean.

  Crossing Broadway, she turned north into the wind, dropped the bloody tissue into a trash basket. Eighty-sixth Street. Twenty-two blocks to go. She tightened her scarf. The walk will do you good, she thought. You can use the exercise.

  FIVE

  The next day the clouds had lifted, the morning clear and cold. She had breakfast at the West Way, read most of the New York Times over eggs and bacon, got a second cup of tea to go.

  Back in the apartment, restless and caffeinated, she put on her red and black Puma track suit, stretched on the living room floor. She needed to run, to clear her head, to think.

  When she left the lobby, the black cat with the torn ear was lurking behind a stone planter. It fled when it saw her.

  It felt good to hit the street. The sky was bright blue, the air sharp. She jogged south along Broadway for a block, the street smells strong; scorched pretzels, falafel, bus exhaust. All that remained of the snow was gray sludge in the gutters.

  Crossing at the light, she headed west on 107th to Riverside Drive, picking up speed on the downhill slope. At the corner, she jogged in place, waiting for the light to change, then headed into the park.

  Sunlight glared off the Hudson as she ran south along the promenade, weaving around runners and bicyclists, putting on speed. A cluster of pigeons flew away as she neared them.

  She measured off the half mile from memory, then turned, jogged in place for a moment, and started back, her breath clouding.

  She wondered how long it would take to raise two hundred and fifty thousand, and what it would buy her from the lawyer in Texas. Or if it was all just a scam, money for empty promises and no results. Money she would never get back.

  She went up to 114th, dodging rollerbladers, then left the park, crossed Riverside again to take the long way home. Running east on 114th, she passed chattering groups of Columbia students, people walking dogs, then turned south on Amsterdam.

  The neighborhood was different here, less gentrified. A group of Dominican teens outside a liquor store yelled something at her. She ignored them, fought the urge to speed up, not wanting them to see her react.

  At 112th and Amsterdam, she slowed as she always did, looked across at Diego’s. It was the last bodega in the neighborhood, the plate glass window crowded with signs for calling cards, money wiring services, cigarettes. There in the lower left-hand corner, the Corona beer poster, a sweating amber bottle beneath a palm tree. Just another sign in the cluttered window—but today this one was upside down.

  She kept going, did the last four blocks and turned back onto 108th, slowing now as she neared her building.

  The sign was like that only two or three times a year, a message from Hector. It meant only one thing. Work.

  * * *

  Her phone was almost out of minutes, so she got another from the desk in the bedroom and broke it out of its plastic package. She bought them whenever she could, always in different places, and with cash.

  She activated the phone, punched in Hector’s number, got his voice mail. She said, “Me,” and ended the call.


  When he called back, she was on a yoga mat in the living room, stretching the soreness out of her legs.

  “You in town?” he said.

  “Just got back. Saw your message.”

  “Up for lunch?”

  “Heavy lunch or light lunch?”

  “Light now, maybe heavier later if you like what they’re serving.”

  “When?”

  “Free now?”

  She looked at her watch. One thirty.

  “An hour,” she said. “Same place as last.”

  “See you there,” he said and ended the call.

  * * *

  The Hop Ling restaurant was in a warren of short, crooked streets off Mott, in between a toy shop and a store that sold nothing but ornamented purses.

  She went down the street level stairs, shouldered open the door. A wave of heat and scent hit her—fried food, steamed rice. Inside the low-ceilinged room were booths, a plywood counter, a roped-off table area in the back.

  Hector was in a booth in the far corner, facing the door, wearing a green flight jacket. He was the only non-Asian in the room. Half the other booths were occupied, people eating purposefully.

  She had to sidestep fast-moving waiters on her way over. The kitchen doors flew open and shut, smatterings of urgent Cantonese coming from inside.

  She slipped into the booth across from him. There was a silver teapot on the table, two ceramic cups, a pair of oversized menus.

  “I didn’t order,” he said. “I was waiting for you.”

  She shifted to get a sight angle on the door. He opened his menu flat on the table. As always, her eyes were drawn to the Gothic script tattoo on his neck, his brother Pablo’s initials, birth and death dates. Pablo had started out working with Wayne, then gone on to run his own commercial burglary crew, with Hector as his contact man. He’d been killed by federal marshals trying to serve a fugitive warrant on him in an Atlantic City motel.

  “How was the road trip?” Hector said.

  “Not so good.”

  “Were the sights exaggerated?”

  “A little. Nobody’s fault.”

  “That’s too bad. Charlie’s information is usually accurate.”

  “Way it goes,” she said. “Nothing for it.”

  She took an envelope from her inside jacket pocket, slid it under his menu, held up three fingers to show him how much. Whenever he steered her to work, she gave him ten percent of her take-home. It was the arrangement they’d had for the last three years, since she’d come north.

  “That bad, huh?” he said.

  “That bad.”

  He slipped the envelope into his jacket.

  An elderly waiter came over, pulled a pencil from behind his ear, and stood pad in hand. She wasn’t hungry, but it would attract attention to be here without food. She ordered hot and sour soup. Hector pointed to a special on the handwritten card in the menu’s plastic liner. The waiter took their menus, left without speaking.

  “I figure I better eat,” Hector said. “I have to go out to Paterson later on, help my brother-in-law move some furniture. Like my back’s not fucked up enough.”

  “How are the girls?”

  “Getting big. Elita turns seven next month. She’s got her First Holy Communion coming up this spring, at Saint Anthony’s. Already her mother’s worried about it. I said, ‘Ay por dios, let’s get through Christmas first.’ ” He patted his jacket. “This will help.”

  “I was surprised to get your message. I’ve only been back a couple of days.”

  “I know. But I didn’t want to wait either.”

  He poured tea, looked at her. She nodded, and he filled her cup, steam rising up.

  “I don’t know that I’m up to traveling again yet,” she said.

  “That’s what I figured. But if I didn’t think it was worth your time…”

  She sat back to listen.

  “You remember that guy from Staten Island? Runs an electronics store?”

  She shook her head.

  “Bald guy. Big dude. Little beard here.” He stroked his chin.

  Stimmer. “Yeah, okay.”

  “He’s looking for associates for an out-of-area opportunity.”

  “He say what it was?”

  “No, just that it would be worth it. He bad news to you?”

  “No more than anyone.”

  Their food arrived, the waiter dropping the steaming plates in front of them without a word and vanishing as quickly. Hector ripped the paper off his chopsticks, pulled them apart.

  “He’s planning a seminar soon. Asked if I knew anyone with experience who wanted to attend.”

  “He mention my name?”

  He shook his head, pushed rice and chicken around his plate, the smell of it wafting up.

  “No names. But he knows who I talk to.”

  She took noodles from a bowl, crushed them into her soup.

  “What makes you think it’s worth my time?”

  “He said it might be a Stage Seven project.”

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  Stage Seven meant seven figures or more. She blew on her soup, sipped a spoonful. It made her eyes water.

  “Where at?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Where’s the seminar?”

  “Across the river, he says. Not far. I didn’t get all the details.”

  Jersey. She frowned. She didn’t like doing anything close to home, even prep work.

  “Is that where the project is?”

  “I don’t think so. If I thought it was, I wouldn’t have bothered you with it.”

  She stirred her soup. Even if the figures were exaggerated, Stimmer was solid. Depending on how big the crew was, it might be worth it. She thought about the lawyer in Texas.

  “I might look into it,” she said. She spooned soup.

  “I’ll get back in touch with him,” he said. “If it still sounds good, I’ll call you.”

  “He say how many associates he was looking for?”

  “No. Just that the work-to-reward ratio was high. Not very labor-intensive. I got the impression he meant three, maybe four.”

  She drank tea. Stimmer was a pro, but underestimating the work involved and crew needed was a common mistake. Greed sometimes led to undermanning. The times that happened, she’d tried to convince the organizers otherwise. If she couldn’t, she walked.

  She’d yet to put together a crew herself, though. She dealt almost exclusively with men, and many of them refused to take direction from a woman. When Wayne had run crews, she was his right hand, gave orders, made suggestions, and the others went along with it. Now she was on her own.

  “So I’ll tell him maybe?” Hector said.

  “If I like what I hear. I want your sense of it first. If you get details and don’t think it’s worth it, that’ll be it. I don’t want the complication of hearing his pitch and then saying no. Makes people nervous.”

  “He might not want to tell me. Might only want to talk to you.”

  “Then he’s out of luck,” she said.

  SIX

  When Terry pulled up in front of the house, there was a banged-up Schwinn on the open porch.

  “Whose bike?” Eddie said

  “It belongs to Cody,” Terry said. “He’s a friend.”

  “He always hang around your old lady when you’re not home?”

  “He stays here sometimes.”

  “Whatever.”

  They got out. It was late afternoon, the sky gray. Eddie had used some of Casco’s money to buy new clothes, left the old ones in a Dumpster behind the motel. He wore a black trench coat and white roll-neck sweater, left the coat open. He liked the way it hung on him, like a duster.

  They went up the slate path. The porch creaked under them.

  “How long you lived here?” Eddie said.

  “Couple months. Angie knows the owner.”

  “Knows or blows?”

  “What do you mean?”

  �
�Never mind.”

  When Terry opened the door, Eddie frowned at the smell that came out. Marijuana, fried food, and body odor.

  They stepped into a hallway, stairs to the left, living room to the right. There was a sleeping bag on the floor there, a couch with threadbare arms, a recliner leaking stuffing. Empty beer bottles on a coffee table.

  “Christ,” Eddie said. “Leave the door open.”

  “Terry?” A woman’s voice from upstairs, then slow footsteps coming down. Eddie looked up. The woman had stringy blond hair, wore faded jeans and a T-shirt. She’d been pretty once.

  “Angie,” Terry said. “This is Eddie. I told you about him.”

  Eddie nodded at her. She put a hand on her belly, as if to protect it.

  “Hey,” a man’s voice called from down the hall. “Close the fucking door.”

  Eddie turned to Terry. He was looking at the floor.

  Eddie went down the hall to the kitchen. A man with long, greasy hair and a Metallica T-shirt was sitting at a table, spooning soup from a bowl. He looked up when Eddie came in. He had big arms, blue snake tattoos curling around veiny biceps. He ate prison style, elbows on both sides of the bowl, protecting his food.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he said.

  “You Cody?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  Eddie looked around. The stove was stained with food, the sink full of dishes. “Out.”

  Cody looked at him, lifted another spoonful of soup, taking his time. Terry was watching from the hallway.

  “You got ten seconds,” Eddie said. “Starting now.”

  “You need to chill, pops. Who do you think you’re talking to?”

  “Nine.”

  “Terry, who is this dude?”

  “Eight.”

  Eddie came around the table, took the bowl, and dumped it into the sink, soup splashing the dishes already there. Cody pushed away from the table, stood. He was a full head taller than Eddie, his chest and shoulders thick from a prison weight room.

  “What the fuck is your problem, man? You want to get your ass tore up?”

  “Seven.”

  “You better—”

  “One.” Eddie drove a heel into the outside of Cody’s knee, his weight behind it. It snapped the leg in, and Cody cried out, bent. Eddie brought a knee up hard into his face, then headlocked him before he could fall. He dragged him through the kitchen and into the hall. Terry stepped aside. Angie watched from the stairs.