Cold Shot to the Heart

by Wallace Stroby

  Cody was starting to flail by the time they reached the door. Eddie tightened his grip, cutting off his air. He slung him out onto the porch, then gave him a two-handed shove that sent him over the steps and onto the slate path. He landed hard on his side.

  “Five seconds to be on your way,” Eddie said.

  Cody rolled to his hands and knees. Blood dripped from his nose to the slate. Eddie picked up the bike, lifted it chest high, and flung it. It hit him, knocked him back on his side.

  “Four.”

  Cody looked at him, got slowly to his feet. “Man, I think you broke my nose.” His voice was thick. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Hold on,” Eddie said. He went back in the house, got the sleeping bag. It stank of sweat and smoke. He brought it out, tossed it off the porch.

  “Take that with you. If I ever see you here again, I’ll break your back.”

  Cody wiped his face, picked up the sleeping bag, began to roll it.

  “Three,” Eddie said. He came down the porch steps.

  Cody tucked the half-rolled sleeping bag under his arm. He righted the bike, walked it to the sidewalk quickly. He dropped the sleeping bag, had to lean to pick it up, the bike almost falling over.

  “Two,” Eddie said.

  Cody got on the bike, started to pedal fast, unsteady at first. He looked back once. Eddie watched him ride away.

  He went back in. Angie hadn’t moved.

  “We’re going out,” he said to her. “While we’re gone, clean this shithole up. Start with that kitchen.”

  She looked at Terry. He looked away.

  “What are you waiting for?” Eddie said to her. “Get at it.”

  * * *

  They were at the bottom of a dead-end street, sitting on a guardrail, looking out at the bay. Wind blew cold off the water. In the distance, the lights of fishing boats on the darkening horizon.

  “This baby,” Eddie said. “You sure it’s yours?”

  Terry looked at him. “Why would you say something like that?”

  “Just asking. Something to think about, though, you know. Before you start rearranging your life.”

  “It’s mine.”

  “Sorry I mentioned it.”

  “Angie’s a good kid.”

  “I’m sure she is. That guy was punking you, though. Whether you knew it or not.”

  Terry looked off at the water.

  “I don’t know what you’ve been doing since I’ve been away,” Eddie said, “but I don’t like what I’ve seen so far. You want to ride with me again, we need to get some things straight.”

  Terry nodded, looked down.

  “You can’t go around with me looking like you do,” Eddie said. “Take that money I gave you, buy some clothes. For the girl, too.”

  “Okay.”

  “You want people’s respect, you have to respect yourself first.”

  Terry got lighter and cigarettes out. With the wind, it took him four tries to get one lit.

  “I called Tino today,” Eddie said.

  “What did he say?”

  “He might have something for us soon. I’m going to meet him later this week. He owes me. He knows that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the last favor I did him cost me five years. That dealer I shot in the knee in Passaic, he was pushing up on one of Tino’s niggers. Tino paid for the lawyer, yeah, but I’m the one did the time. And for the appeal, I had to hire another one myself. You think he’d leave his idiot son, or one of his cumbadis, twisting in the wind like that?”

  “I thought you guys were tight.”

  “Tino’s not tight with anyone. He’s a fucking paranoid individual. Always has been, and I’ve known him thirty years. And I’m only half Italian, you know? So he trusts me even less. Half Italian, half spic, and I don’t speak either.”

  Terry blew smoke out.

  “You don’t look too happy,” Eddie said. “Way you’ve been living, I thought you’d be glad to see me.”

  “I am, it’s just…”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t expect all this shit to start over again so soon, I guess.”

  “What shit? Didn’t I put twelve grand in your pocket the other day? I thought you’d be happy making white man’s money again.”

  “I just didn’t understand it, that’s all.”

  “Understand what?”

  “If he was promising to get all your money back in a couple days, if he could actually do it, why kill him?”

  “You been stewing about that? That what’s been bothering you?”

  “I was just thinking. If he was offering to pay you…”

  “He wasn’t going to pay me. Not after I braced him like that. He was going to shine me on, then find some way to weasel out of it. Go crying to Tino. Or, if he grew balls, pay someone to whack me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he was scared of me. Sometimes, when you get hard with people, you have to finish it right there, whether they deserve it or not. Because there’s always the chance they’ll come back at you somewhere down the road. That twenty-five K was all I was ever going to get out of him, and we both knew it.”

  Terry tossed his cigarette into the water.

  “You saw it when we were on the tier together,” Eddie said. “Guys don’t get stabbed because they owe money and can’t pay. Guys get stabbed because they lent money, and the poor fucker who borrowed it is afraid what’ll happen if he doesn’t pay, so he makes the first move. Casco would have bided his time, given me a few bucks here and there. Then he would have moved on me. No way around it.”

  “He used Tino’s name.”

  “I stopped living my life worrying about what Tino thinks. He’ll get over it.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  Eddie stood. “Make some moves. See what I can get going again. Feels like I’ve been away a long time.”

  “It was worse this time, wasn’t it?”

  “In Rahway? Only thing I missed was having your sweet ass around to do my laundry, make my bed.”

  “Cut it out.”

  Eddie put an arm around his neck, squeezed, tugged him off the rail. Terry pushed at him, and Eddie laughed, released him, shoved him gently away.

  “Seriously, kid. Think about it. Three years in the same cell together, I could have fucked you any time I wanted. But I never did. I was a gentleman.”

  “Don’t even joke about that, man.”

  “Better me than some brothers, right? One of them holding a shank to your throat while the others pull a train.”

  “That shit ain’t funny.”

  “I’m just screwing with you. Come on, let’s go.”

  They started back toward the house.

  “You want to come in?” Terry said. “I think there’s some beers in the refrigerator.”

  “I go back in there, I’ll never get the stink off me. Some other time. Drive me back to the motel.”

  When they reached the El Camino, Eddie said, “Your woman. How pregnant is she?”

  “Four months, about. She’s just starting to show.”

  “She got a doctor?”

  “The clinic. There’s one in Keyport.”

  “Fuck that. Take that money, find a real doctor. His eyes’ll light up when he sees that cash. If anybody asks, tell them you won it at the track. They won’t turn you away. I guarantee that.”

  “Thanks.”

  Eddie put a hand on his shoulder, squeezed.

  “Stick with me, kid,” he said. “Things are about to get a lot better for both of us. I can feel it.”

  SEVEN

  Crissa parked the rented Honda in the trees, looked up the long gravel driveway to the farmhouse. Lights on inside, two cars parked in the side yard, a dark barn beyond.

  She slipped out of the car, made her way up through the trees. She wore a black Aran sweater, jeans, and boots. In the right-hand pocket of her leather jacket was a snub-nosed .38. Wayne had given it to
her not long after they’d met. She’d gotten it from the safe deposit box at the bank on 101st that afternoon. She never kept guns in the apartment.

  A light over the side door lit the two cars. One was a blue Ford Focus, Jersey plates, a rental. The second was a sleek black BMW with tinted windows and New York plates.

  She checked the barn first. A side wall and part of the roof had collapsed. Nothing inside but rubble. She moved back toward the house, laid her hand on the Ford’s hood, could feel the warmth through her glove. The BMW was as cold as the night.

  Curtains on the side window. She could see a figure moving inside, hear voices. She took out the .38. It was nickel plated with mother-of-pearl grips, the serial number removed with acid. It was untraceable, had never been used in a crime.

  She tucked it in the Y of a dead tree. If it was a setup inside, law, she didn’t want it on her. This way, if she had to run, needed it then, she’d be able to reach it quick.

  She knocked at the side door. Silence, then the scrape of chairs. She stepped back. Footsteps inside and then Stimmer was there, peering through the glass, right hand hidden behind his leg. He wore a commando sweater under a dark parka. He looked past her, to right and left. She waited while he worked locks.

  “Crissa,” he said when the door was open. “Long time.”

  He stepped aside as she came in. He was bulky through the neck and shoulders, a weight lifter. The last work they’d done together, a supermarket payroll in Muncie, Indiana, had been three years ago. He’d run it well, and she’d come home with seventy-eight grand, one of her first times working without Wayne.

  He locked the door again, led her down a hall into an ancient kitchen. There was an oversized refrigerator with an old-fashioned latch, the enamel yellow with age. Patches of the linoleum floor were worn through to the wood.

  Chance sat at the kitchen table. He smiled when he saw her, rocked back on his chair. “Hey, Red.”

  “Hey, Bobby. Good to see you.”

  “Same here. I feel better now.”

  “You two know each other already,” Stimmer said. “I should have guessed.”

  He set a dark automatic atop the refrigerator. The gun bothered her. There was no need for it.

  “Who else?” she said.

  “That’s it,” Stimmer said. “Just three.”

  It was as cold inside as out. Chance wore a blue down vest over a red flannel shirt buttoned at the wrists. He had full-sleeve tattoos beneath, she knew, elaborate designs he’d paid thousands for in Thailand. The last time she’d seen him, he’d had a ponytail. Now his dark hair was shorter, parted in the middle.

  “Good thing you dressed warm,” he said.

  She looked at Stimmer.

  “Someone live here?”

  “Not anymore.” He dragged a chair over to the table for her. “It’s coming down soon. They’re going to build condos or some shit here if the economy ever turns around. They left the power on, but no heat.”

  He straddled a chair at the head of the table. Crissa sat to his right, Chance across from her.

  “You’re looking good,” Chance said.

  “Thanks. I see you’re keeping on.”

  “Beats working, like Wayne used to say. What do you hear from him?”

  “You know the way it is. One day at a time. Going down to see him soon.”

  She and Chance had worked together twice, a diamond broker outside Jacksonville and an armored car in Cincinnati, both with teams Wayne led. Clean work, solid, with no blowback.

  She ran a hand under the surface of the table, felt knots and bulges in the wood, no wires.

  “Warmer where we’re going,” Stimmer said.

  “If we go,” Chance said.

  “Tell it,” she said.

  “It’s a sweetheart,” Stimmer said. “Fort Lauderdale card game. High rollers. A million, maybe more, on the table.”

  “That’s hard to believe,” she said.

  Chance smiled. “My first reaction, too.”

  “But?”

  “Game’s new,” Stimmer said. “Unprotected. It started with some players from the Seminole casino over in Hollywood. They wanted a looser environment, higher stakes. Poker drawing amateurs the way it is these days, they set up the game to fleece the wannabe big-timers. That’s why it’s in a hotel.”

  “The game’s crooked?” she said.

  “No, it’s on the level, but there’s a ringer or two, a couple pros to bleed the amateurs dry. It’s a massacre in there some nights.”

  “Why do they keep playing?” Chance said. “The amateurs, I mean.”

  Stimmer shrugged. “Why do gamblers keep losing? For the thrill. It was too good to last, though. So they’re doing one last big game, then shutting it down.”

  “How do you know all this?” she said. With that level of information, there had to be an inside man. They were always the weakest link, the first to buckle under pressure, give up the rest of the crew in exchange for a deal.

  “One of the players. He realized what was going on, got out after the first couple weeks. He told me about it.”

  “He in this, too?”

  “For a finder’s fee, that’s all. A few grand. I’ll take care of that from my end.”

  “Who are the players?”

  “Changes every week, but two or three of them form the core. I have a rough list. I can give it to you, you can check them out yourself. Some old-time Florida guys, a couple Koreans. Every once in a while, some gangsta rapper sits in. All with money to burn, looking to have a little fun, too stupid to know what’s going on. Or just don’t give a fuck.”

  “Unprotected?” she said.

  “Unprotected, unauthorized, and wide open. No one will get pissed if it gets taken down.”

  “Except the players,” Chance said.

  “Most of them will lick their wounds, walk away, write it off,” Stimmer said. “The game’s illegal anyway. They can’t go to the police. And the rest of them … well, we’ll be a thousand miles away before they even realize what happened.”

  “Or,” Chance said, “if they already suspect the game’s crooked, when they get taken off they’ll think that’s an inside job, too, get mad at the wrong people.”

  “Could be,” Stimmer said and half-smiled. “That’s the beauty of it.”

  “A million plus on the table,” she said. “That doesn’t sound right.”

  “That’s a best-case scenario. Still, between three people…”

  “They have a banker there?” she said.

  “Yeah. He brings the chips, watches over the money.”

  “So they’ll have some sort of security. Armed.”

  “There’s always a guy with the banker to keep an eye on him, settle any disputes among the players. But it’s usually a quiet game. No women, no posses. Just room service food and booze. They come to play.”

  “You got all this from your inside man?”

  “Plus a sketch of the layout. That never changes. Always the same room.”

  “How do we get in and out?”

  “That’s what I need you two to help me figure out.”

  “Your insider,” Chance said. “He’ll be conspicuously absent when all this goes down, won’t he?”

  “He hasn’t played in a month. He’s done with it. He wouldn’t mind a little revenge too, for what he lost. He’ll be happy with what I give him though. I’ll make sure of that.”

  “What do they play?” she said.

  “Hold ’Em, mostly. No limit. Thirty-thousand-dollar buy-in. Sometimes they alternate. Hold ’Em, Omaha, Stud, and Stud Eight. They hire a private dealer for the night.”

  “How many players?”

  “Six to ten,” he said. “Since it’s the last night, probably the full ten. Some of them will want a chance to win their money back.”

  “So at least twelve people in there, maybe more.”

  “Small space, though. Easy to control. We go in heavy, four, five minutes we’re out of there.”

>   Chance laced his fingers behind his head, rocked back on his chair.

  She thought it over. If Stimmer’s information was accurate, three might be enough. A small crew, but she’d worked with both of them before, knew they were good. It improved the odds.

  “You say they’re only doing one more game?” she said.

  Stimmer nodded. “That’s the word.”

  “When?”

  “That’s the complication.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The timing. It’s Sunday.”

  “Shit,” Chance said. “That’s just…”

  “Five days,” Stimmer said. “That’s all the time we’ve got.”

  * * *

  “I’m unconvinced,” she said.

  They were in the bar at a Sheraton off the Garden State Parkway, a half hour’s drive from the farmhouse. She and Chance had gotten a booth in the back. She had a glass of red wine in front of her, Chance a beer, steaks on the way.

  “This was pitched to me as high-end,” she said. “Not some half-assed card game.”

  “I’ve heard worse.”

  “You’re liking it?”

  “I want to know more,” he said, “but I didn’t hear anything that made me rule it out. Three people, the logistics are simpler. Cut’s better, too.”

  “I don’t know.” She looked around the bar, scanned faces. “That much money in play at a single game. Hard to buy.”

  “Look at it this way. Even if it’s only half that, it’s a good return. If the setup’s the way he says it is, all we have to do is go in and grab the bank and skedaddle. Hard to pass that up.”

  “It always looks easy until you walk in the door.”

  “Yeah. But like Wayne used to say, ‘Plan the work…’ ”

  “ ‘… and work the plan.’ I remember.”

  The waitress brought their food. For a while, they ate without speaking, comfortable in their silence. It was good to sit across from him, to know he was alive, still on the outside. He was another connection with Wayne, with the way their lives had once been, a reminder of better times. Despite the dangers, the risks of the work, her years with Wayne had been the happiest of her life.