Cold Shot to the Heart

by Wallace Stroby

  “Sorry,” she said. “Drifting a little, I guess.”

  “I’ve probably overstayed my welcome. I guess we’re both tired.” He finished his drink.

  She turned toward him. “Where are you staying while you’re up here?”

  “Across the street. I’ve been eating in here almost every night. It’s starting to feel like home. How about you?”

  “I’m there, too. There a liquor store around here?”

  “Just a few blocks away,” he said and smiled. “I’ve been there many times.”

  “When do they close?”

  “Ten, maybe.” He looked at his watch. “Still plenty of time.”

  “I’d like a little more of this,” she said, touching the wineglass, “but not at these prices.” Making the decision then, letting him know it.

  “Sounds good to me,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  He had a big Ford 150 with a cap in back, EXCEL CARPENTRY and a phone number painted on the side. He drove carefully, not looking at her. Snow swirled in the headlights, the wipers clicking rhythmically. There were few cars on the road.

  Outside the liquor store, she said, “Wait here,” got out, and went inside. She bought a pint of rum and a liter of Coke for him, a bottle of Médoc for herself.

  When they pulled into the motel lot, she said, “There’s some plastic glasses in my room. Nothing fancy, but they’ll do.”

  He took the bag from her, and they walked to her room in the snow. She closed the door against the wind, undid her scarf and unbuttoned her jacket. He set the bag on the table.

  “Gotta hit the bathroom,” he said.

  “Go on.”

  Her cell was on the nightstand where she’d left it. She had three missed calls, all from Hector. No messages.

  She hit RETURN CALL. He picked up on the second ring.

  “Been trying to reach you all night,” he said. “Can you talk?”

  She looked at the closed bathroom door, heard the toilet flush, then the sound of running water.

  “Yes. What’s the problem?”

  “It’s about our friend. The bald guy with the blue eyes.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s dead.”

  The bathroom door opened, and Travis came out, drying his hands on a towel. He looked at her, his smile fading. She lowered the phone.

  “Travis,” she said. “Go home.”

  NINETEEN

  Hector suggested Hop Ling, but she was paranoid now, didn’t want to meet anywhere they’d been before. They settled on a coffee shop on Church Street, near the World Trade Center PATH station.

  She got there first, took a booth in the back, far from the windows. It was ten thirty in the morning, the breakfast crowd thinning. She was tired from the drive back, had left at first light. She was on her second cup of tea when he showed up and slid in across from her.

  He ordered coffee from the waitress. When she walked away, Crissa said, “Tell it.”

  “I don’t have all the details. Got a call from my cousin. She works with the state police, in the office.”

  “You never told me that.”

  “No reason to. She’s a good source, I use her all the time. Back when Stimmer first got in touch, I asked her to run a check on him, see if there were any warrants, if he was involved in any open cases, listed as a CI, whatever.”

  “Was that smart?”

  “She didn’t know why. I’m just trying to keep you safe. If there’d been an issue, or something didn’t seem right, I wouldn’t have put you in touch with him.”

  The waitress brought his coffee, left. Crissa said, “What happened?”

  “A crew working out in the Meadowlands, underground cables or something, found his car. He was in the trunk. One in the head. Hadn’t been there long.”

  “It make the news?”

  “Not yet. His wallet was in there with him, though. When my cousin saw the report, she called me. The car was under an abutment, out of sight. If that crew hadn’t been there, it might not have been found for a while.”

  “Sounds like wiseguy bullshit.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Someone angry over Florida. Getting even.”

  “She’ll call if she hears anything else.”

  “Question is, who else are they angry at? And what did he tell them beforehand?”

  “That’s why I called you last night. I figured you’d want to know right away. I called Chance’s man, too. He’s passing the message along.”

  “All that’s been going on, he’s probably halfway to Hawaii.”

  “Not a bad idea. Maybe you should think about the same. I sent Luisa and the girls to her mother’s in Philly, just in case.”

  She looked around the room, scanning faces.

  “I don’t like this,” she said. “Not knowing.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Jimmy Falcone still around?”

  “Which one, the father or the son?”

  “The father. Jimmy Peaches.”

  “I think so. I haven’t heard otherwise. Last I knew, he was in one of those assisted living places, down the Shore somewhere. Jimmy Junior’s out in Marion, not coming home anytime soon. How do you know Jimmy Peaches?”

  “Through Wayne. He pointed us to some work up here a few years back. I got to know him a little.”

  “He’s old-school. Way before my time.”

  “Do me a favor and see what you can find out.”

  “I will. You know, there’s a chance what happened to Stimmer has nothing to do with any of this. Could be an old beef he had. Could be something else entirely.”

  “That’s right,” she said. She finished the tea, got bills out for the check. “But do you really believe that?”

  He didn’t answer.

  * * *

  She was walking north on Broadway, heading toward the Chambers Street subway station, when her phone buzzed. A number she didn’t recognize. She pressed SEND.

  “It’s me,” Chance said.

  “You got the message?”

  “I did. What’s it mean?”

  “Not sure yet. I’m trying to find out more.”

  “It’s something to do with down south, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe.”

  She stopped outside the subway entrance. The grate at her feet rattled as a train went by below.

  “If the circumstances were otherwise,” he said, “I’d say someone did us a favor.”

  “It could be unrelated. I’m sure he had enemies.”

  “You should have let me end it down there. It would have been simpler.”

  “Too late for that. I’m going to shake some trees, see what I can find out. How long’s this number good for?”

  “About five minutes. I think it’s best to cut some ties. Don’t take it personally.”

  “I won’t. What are your plans?”

  “I’m going to move around a little. Cleveland for a few days, then I’ll catch a train.”

  “What direction?”

  “Haven’t decided.”

  Careful now, not wanting to tell her where he was going.

  After a moment, he said, “You want me out there?”

  “No. Do what you need to. I’m getting rid of this number, too. I’ll give your guy the new one.”

  “Any shit starts to jump off about this, you need to let me know.”

  “I will.”

  “Might be a better idea if you just get out of there for a while.”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  “I don’t want to have to answer to Wayne if something happens to you over a deal I was involved with.”

  “He wouldn’t blame you.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that. And he has a long memory.”

  “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “If you need me out there, call my guy. Don’t screw around.”

  “We’ll see,” she said and ended the call.

  She shut the phone down, pried off the
back, and took out the chip. She snapped it in two with gloved fingers, flipped the pieces into a storm drain. Then she dropped the phone in a trash bin, went down into the station.

  * * *

  Back in the apartment, she broke open another phone, powered it up, and called Hector.

  “It’s me,” she said. “New one.”

  “Got it.”

  She hit END, punched in Rathka’s number, waited while Monique put her through.

  When he came on the line, Crissa said, “Anything new from Texas?”

  “I talked to our friend in Austin. He agreed to take half now, half later when he starts to show some results.”

  “You pay him?”

  “I wired it out yesterday. One twenty-five.”

  “He better produce.”

  “He’s aware of that, but he says it’ll be weeks before he knows anything. January at the earliest, maybe February. Still, as I said, nothing’s for certain until that board sits down in March.”

  “When does he want the rest?”

  “I told him he’d get it when we got some proof things were moving along. Like an early letter to the board, expressing support. A declaration of intent.”

  “We give him the two fifty, and that hearing doesn’t go our way, there’ll be issues.”

  “He knows that. I’ll give it a couple weeks into the new year, then rattle his cage a little if I haven’t heard from him. But I have to be careful here. I’m putting myself at risk as well.”

  “I know that. I appreciate it. Listen, I may need to go away for a few days. Not sure when yet, or where. If I do, I’ll get in touch, let you know where you can reach me.”

  “I hope that’s not as ominous as it sounds. You’re worrying me.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” she lied. “Everything’s under control.”

  She got the suitcase from the closet, opened it on the bed, and took out the .38 and the carton of shells that had been in the safe deposit box. She broke open the cylinder, checked the loads, then closed it again. She’d have to carry it now, and that bothered her—but she couldn’t take the chance of getting caught without it.

  * * *

  She was on the futon, a glass of wine in her hand, night creeping across the floor, when her cell began to trill. Hector.

  “That guy you were asking about,” he said. “Peaches.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I made some calls. I got a number for him, or at least somebody who can reach him.”

  “Good, what is it?”

  She took the phone into the bedroom, shooed the cat off the desk. She found a pen and wrote the number on the back of an envelope.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll let you know what happens.”

  “I’m headed up to my nephew’s place in Newark. He knows some people around there, maybe they’ve heard something.”

  “You going tonight?”

  “Might as well. I just talked to Luisa. Everything’s okay. Kids think it’s a little vacation, you know?”

  “Good.”

  “If I find out anything, I’ll call you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But you need to be careful, all right? Just in case.”

  “I always am,” she said.

  TWENTY

  They’d parked the El Camino on a side street, with a diagonal view of a row of old homes. Three doors from the corner was the address Stimmer had given them, a two-story house with a small yard. There were lights in the front windows. No one had come in or out in the three hours they’d been here.

  “How long are we gonna wait?” Terry said.

  “Long as it takes.”

  They were on the west side of Jersey City, new businesses and restaurants a few blocks away. Here, houses with sagging porches, sneakers hanging from telephone wires.

  “What he told us,” Terry said. “It could all be bullshit.”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  A shadow moved behind a window.

  “Someone’s in there,” Eddie said.

  “What about the wife and kids? He’s supposed to have a wife and kids.”

  “I’ll worry about that.”

  The front door opened. A Hispanic man in a green flight jacket came onto the porch, cell phone to his ear.

  “Give me your phone,” Eddie said.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want to spook him when he sees the number.”

  Terry handed it over. The man started up the block, still talking, then closed the phone and put it away. He went to a brown Chevy Nova, unlocked it, and got behind the wheel. They heard it start up, saw white exhaust swirl from the tailpipe.

  Eddie punched in the number he’d gotten from Stimmer’s cell. The driver took out his phone, looked at it. Eddie pressed END.

  “That’s him,” he said.

  The Nova pulled out, crossed the intersection in front of them.

  “Follow him,” Eddie said. “But stay back.”

  The Nova stood out in traffic, was easy to keep in sight. Suarez led them out of the city, onto the Parkway, heading north. After a while, he moved into the far right lane and signaled for the exit.

  “He’s taking us to Newark,” Terry said.

  “Don’t lose him.”

  They left the Parkway, wound through back streets into a warehouse district. Narrow one-way streets and no other cars. They could see the Nova’s taillights ahead.

  “I don’t like this,” Terry said.

  The Nova pulled up outside a tire shop.

  “Drive past,” Eddie said. “Don’t slow down.”

  As they went by, he got a glimpse of open bay doors, discarded tires. Salsa blasted from inside. He watched the shop in the rearview, saw Suarez get out of the Nova and go in.

  “Make a left up here,” Eddie said. “Circle around. Kill the lights.”

  Four left turns later, Terry pulled to the curb two blocks down from the tire shop. The streetlamp above them was out. The next one, a half block up, flickered on and off.

  Light from the shop bled into the street, the music filtering down to them. Five minutes later, Suarez came out carrying an oversized gym bag, got back in the Nova.

  “You think that’s money?” Terry said.

  The Nova pulled away from the curb.

  “Turn around here,” Eddie said. “I don’t want to drive past there again.”

  Terry swung a U-turn, lights off.

  “Go up a block, turn right,” Eddie said. “It’s dead around here at night. He’ll be easy to find.”

  They traced a slow grid, headlights off. The warehouses and automotive shops they passed were dark. There was no sign of the Nova.

  “Shit. Where’d he get to?” Terry said.

  They turned onto a wide two-way street along a row of warehouses.

  “Slow down,” Eddie said. He looked into alleys and driveways as they crept past. Not liking it, feeling too exposed.

  “We can always go back to his house,” Terry said. “Wait for him.”

  Near the end of the block was a narrow alley between two warehouses. Eddie saw the red glow of brake lights on a brick wall.

  “There he is,” he said. “Keep going. Make a right here, go down a block, and pull over.”

  They drove past the alley, made the turn. When Terry pulled to the curb, Eddie took Stimmer’s Ruger from his coat pocket.

  “Wait here, keep an eye out,” he said. “In case I miss him, or I have to clear out quick. If you see him drive past, follow him, see where he goes. Then come back and pick me up.”

  He held out the Star. Terry looked at it.

  “You know how to use it, right?” Eddie said. “There’s a round in the chamber already. Just point it and squeeze the trigger.”

  “No. I’m good.”

  “What are you scared of? If things jump off, you want to be out here holding nothing but your dick?”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  Eddie shook his head, handed the phone back. “Keep that o
n, in case I need to reach you.”

  He got out, tucked the Star in the back of his belt, under the sweater. The metal was cold against his skin. He kept the Ruger down at his side.

  He started down the street, no cars in sight, every building dark and empty. A wide service alley ran behind the warehouses. Loading docks back here, Dumpsters, doors with security lights, alarm company signs. He counted buildings. At the fourth one, the loading gate was open enough for a man to climb under. Light from inside threw a yellow bar on the concrete dock.

  He stopped one building short, staying close to the wall. The Nova was parked in the alley between the buildings, empty. Keeping an eye on the loading gate, he came up beside the car and looked inside. The bag was gone.

  He waited a few moments, listening, then crossed to the loading dock. He looked under the gate, saw racks of metal shelving, boxes, an oil-stained concrete floor, fifty-five-gallon drums.

  He crouched to get a better angle, saw a workbench against the far wall, a single rack of fluorescent lights above it. No one inside.

  He pulled himself up onto the dock. With the Ruger in front of him, he ducked beneath the gate, stood up on the other side.

  In the darkness to his right, he heard the unmistakable ratcheting of a shotgun. Knew it was pointed at his head.

  “Hey, puta,” Hector Suarez said. “Where’s your partner?”

  Eddie didn’t move. On the floor to his left he saw the open gym bag, loose shotgun shells inside. No money.

  “Drop that shit, homes,” Suarez said. “Just toss it away.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Toss it.”

  Eddie bent, put the Ruger on the floor.

  “Now ease out of that coat. Let it fall where it is.”

  He shrugged out of the trench coat. It bundled at his feet.

  “Walk forward. Center of the room. Safety’s off on this bitch.”

  Eddie stepped forward, hearing Suarez behind him. There was the click of a switch, then the drone and rattle of the gate closing. He looked around. It was a big room, most of it lost in shadow. Shelves of cardboard boxes rose almost to the ceiling.

  “Last time I’ll ask. Where’s your partner?”

  “Out there somewhere. Easy, Hector. You don’t know what you’re dealing with here.”

  Suarez came around, keeping his distance. Eddie looked into the muzzle of a pistol-grip shotgun. Suarez kicked the Ruger skittering into the shadows.