“No. I envision a different ending to all this. Know this, Meg: Whatever happens, if old Vito doesn’t end up spending all of what’s left of his daffy waning years in jail, I swear to you, I’ll drive back up to Cleveland and I’ll kill him myself. Either way, he’s not going to be in any position to ever come back at you, or at Shannon. Hell, in most ways, he’ll be even easier to see killed in jail. That can be hired done for a carton of smokes. Whatever it takes, we’re shooting for some kind of happy ending this trip to the well.”
Meg traced his mouth with her fingernails. “And Katy?”
“He won’t be striking back at her, either.”
“Tomorrow, will you give me back my gun, Hector? I mean for just in case?”
“Let me think about that.”
“This isn’t a good way to spend this night,” she said. “Talking about all this, I mean.”
“You’re right.” He urged her up next to him and kissed her, his fingers tangling in her pale hair. His lips grazed her throat and he said, “Do you know any border ballads? Spanish love songs? Cancións?”
“What?”
“Mexican love songs.”
“Suppose I could learn ’em,” she said, leg twisting around him. “I could do that for you.”
“Do that, and we’ll get you some gigs across the border in the Kentucky Bar. Once in a while, Francis—Old Blue Eyes—actually gets down that way. Talent scouts, too. You might even be discovered in the good way. Maybe get yourself a recording deal in the bargain.”
She bit his chin, playful now. “Trying to put me to work already? And who is this Francis?”
“Sinatra. Frank. You’ve got a pretty voice that needs to be shared, Meg.”
“You haven’t really heard me sing, Hector.”
“I’ve heard you talk. You have a beautiful, lilting and contralto voice.”
“You have any happier books that I could read? At least happier than The Last Key, I mean? Maybe one that really does have a happy ending?”
Hm. Hector stroked her breast. After a time he said, “Let me get back to you on that.”
***
A few hours later, Hector heard the bedsprings squeak. (Those cheap, goddamn motel box springs and their infernal noise—they’d driven the lovers to the floor, earlier.) Meg whispered, “Sweet dreams, Hector.”
“You, too,” he muttered back. He must have slept again for a time. Yet it seemed moments later he was roused from sleep again. Groggy, thinking it might be trouble, he slipped a hand under his pillow and wrapped it around the butt of the Peacemaker. A tiny voice said, “Mister Hector, if we keep moving around, how will Santa find me?”
“Santa knows everything, Shannon,” Hector said, cotton-mouthed, but smiling. He propped up on one elbow to see her better. “And maybe Santa can ask Chef Boyardee.”
“That’s a good idea. So you do think Santa will find us?”
“I’m sure of it, honey. Please don’t fret about that.” Given the success her father’s minions were having, some supernatural elf should be able to locate Shannon without breaking a sweat.
“Mommy hasn’t left me much room in bed. Think Megan would mind if I got in bed with her?”
“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind,” Hector said. Take that, Kate.
“I hope I get what I really want,” Shannon said. A puppy.
“I hope so too,” Hector said. “I hope we all get what we really want.”
22
A knock at the door. Hector fetched his gun from under the pillow and stepped to one side of the door, cocking his revolver. He said softly, “Who is it?”
That tenor voice: “Jimmy and Eliot.” Hector eased down the hammer on the old Colt.
He opened the door and the duo shouldered in, stamping slush from their feet. It was just a tick warmer this morning because of the sun and a thaw looked to be taking hold. Hector figured the flooding threats would resume soon as all that snow turned to run off and freshly swelled the Ohio River and its myriad tributaries. The parking lot and sidewalks around the hotel were already turning to slushy soup.
“Gibson is starting to irk me,” Eliot said, sitting at the foot of Hector’s bed. “We’re what, forty minutes from Dayton, something like that?”
“In that vicinity,” Hector said. “Certainly less than an hour.”
“Well, it’s too far for Mr. Gibson to drive that distance evidently,” Eliot said. “I wanted him and a security detail to come here to pick up the girls. To guard and deliver them, properly. But Gibson is adamant we run them to the police headquarters in downtown Dayton instead. I don’t rule out the prospect Gibson has contacted area press, either. Maybe even television cameras. He probably wants a newspaper photo of the ladies turning themselves in to stick in Vito Scartelli’s eye.” It was ironic to hear a notorious headline chaser like Ness rue press coverage.
And Hector figured the damned journalists would probably paint Meg as some scarlet woman to sell papers. Dammit all. And Eliot was likely right about the other, too: about television. Hell, Meg was made for the camera.
“Christ sake,” Hector said, furious now, “if the Dayton cops are like Youngstown and Cleveland flatfoots, then a fair percentage are going to be in Scartelli’s hip pocket. We might as well save a step and shoot down Meg and Kate ourselves.”
“Well, I’m not pleased either,” Eliot said. “So I’m trying to offset that, to give us back a little cover, Hector.”
Wetting his lips, Hector said, “How do you mean to do that, exactly?”
Jimmy and Eliot exchanged wary glances. “Rather hold back on that for a time,” Eliot said.
“This help, such as it is, may not come through, Hec,” Jimmy said. “Rather have you pleasantly surprised if it does.”
“Terrific,” Hector said. Leaps of faith—taking those had never been Hector’s style. But he wasn’t spoiled for options. “Then here’s to your plans coming through,” Hector said.
***
Eliot and Jimmy rolled out of the hotel parking first; Hector’s Chevy followed.
Seven miles east of Dayton they slowed and pulled over behind a dark blue Buick. Kate said, “What is this?”
Meg was seated up front next to Hector. She said, “Should I get some guns?”
“Hold off on that,” Hector said, palming the wheel and rolling to a stop behind Eliot’s car. Eliot walked over to the Chevy and Hector cranked down the window. “Our support has arrived after all,” Eliot said. “C’mon, I’ll introduce you, but we’ll keep it very short.”
Two men lumbered out of the waiting car. The stockier of the trio stalked toward Jimmy, spreading his arms wide. Jimmy said to Hector, “That’s Pete Merylo, one of Cleveland’s honest finest.”
Merylo and Ness pointedly avoided one another; Hector sensed some bad blood there. The second man vigorously pumped Eliot’s hand. Ness pointed at that one and said to Hector, “This is Arnold Sagalyn, one of my key people when I was safety director. I trust him and you can do that too, Hector.”
Hector shook Sagalyn’s hand, then Merylo’s. Eliot said, “Arnold and Pete are old hands from the Butcher case. Pete’s still on that one, in fact. They’ll see us safely into Dayton and the precinct house. After we’ve handed over the ladies, the four of us are going to pay a visit to an old friend.”
Hector said to Merylo, “I’ve been hearing about you for years from Jimmy.”
“Likewise,” Pete said. “Wish the circumstances were better. Hell of a way to meet.”
Jimmy said, “I’ll ride with Pete, if you don’t mind, Arnold.”
“No sweat,” Sagalyn said. “Me and Eliot have a lot of catching up to do. Been too long.”
“Then let’s get going,” Eliot said. “Hector, you ride in the center position. Pete and Jim will cover your tail. Let’s get this wrapped up now boys.” Then Ness actually said it: “Let’s do some good, men.”
Corny as that last sounded, Hector had to smile.
***
Thirty minutes later, they wh
ipped by an interurban car and rolled up in front of the Dayton police headquarters.
Katy’s voice sounded strange to Hector, fear constricting her throat, he guessed. She said to me, “Will you stay in the car with Shannon, Hector? Just until we get safely inside? I don’t want to take any chances. I know you’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe.”
“Surely, Kate,” Hector said. He pulled his Colt out and rested it on his lap. “Hanging back, Meg?”
“She knows things too,” Kate said. “Meg best at least try for some protection as well. My husband is not going to let her just walk away after all this, you know. He’s not the kind. Not so long as he remembers anything.”
Probably that was too true. But Hector figured he could hide Meg well enough. He figured he could get lost down around the border somewhere where even mob money couldn’t cut through language barriers and places that had no names. Where maps didn’t mean much.
They’d let things cool down for a few months, then set Meg up close by Hector’s hacienda.
“I doubt I’ll be long,” Meg said to him. “I have too little to offer them.” Meg reached across the seat and squeezed his knee. She leaned across a little closer and kissed his cheek. Whispering in his ear, she said, “You wait for me, Hector. I want to leave town with you. You’ll keep me safe, I know.”
Hector hesitated, then opened the glove compartment and pulled out one of the myriad liberated guns stowed inside. He checked the forty-five’s clip, pulled back the slide, then handed it to Meg. “Just in case. If anything goes wrong, you point it like a finger and you aim for mass.”
Meg weighed the gun in her hand and nodded. She looked sick, more than a tad scared. Then she kissed Hector hard on the mouth. She said softly, “Thank you, I think.”
“Just get inside that damned building, and do that fast as you can,” Hector said. “Really run. They won’t try anything inside the place. The public relations’ stink of a shooting inside the station would be too much for even them to handle or cover up. Once you’re through those doors, I’m sure you’ll be safe.”
Any attack would have to happen on the street, Hector was sure of exactly that much.
He looked up: at the top of the steps of the police headquarters there was a guy in a three-piece suit. That was Gibson, Hector guessed—the angling son of bitch. Gibson was flanked by uniformed and plain clothes cops. Some newsboys stood on the steps sure enough, top and bottom, their cameras poised. And there were indeed a couple television crews.
The right thing for Gibson to do was to stomp down those steps and swamp the three cars with his men—to get Katy and Meg out, keeping them low and lost in a sea of bustling bodies. But Gibson clearly wanted his goddamn photo opportunity. He wanted the women to come to him, standing posed and mighty at the top of that damn flight of stairs like some damned Moses or Zeus.
Katy said, “Are you two finished talking?” More edge in her voice. Hector thought then about how little he was going to miss Katy. He twisted around in his seat to face her. “Bonne chance, Katharine,” he said. “Run it through that bastard good, won’t you? I know you’re well capable.”
Her blue eyes flared, but then Kate half-smiled and said, “Thank you, sincerely, for risking so much for us, Mr. Lassiter. All things considered, you’re some kind of man.”
Hector said, “Just go now. Go fast and keep your heads well down.” He smiled. “Was me, I’d kick off those heels and run barefoot into there, cameras and how it might look be damned. Speed is your best and truest friend on your trip up those stairs and through the doors.”
Meg slid out of the front seat and opened the back door for Katy—did it like she was some chauffeur to Kate.
Jimmy, Eliot, Pete and Arnold were waiting by the Chevy, trying to surround the women as Gibson and his men should have been doing. Hector saw Jimmy look at Meg’s gun and scowl.
When the back door closed, Hector said, “Shannon, honey, I want you to slide down onto the floor and stay there until I tell you. We’re going to play a game, sweetie.”
That little voice from behind the seat: “Okay, I’m down here. What kind of game?”
“I spy with my little eye. You know that game, kiddo?”
The child sounded delighted. “I’ve played it!”
“Great,” Hector said.
“Why do you want me on the floor?”
He could say, Intuition. Instead he told her, “I don’t want you to see where I’m looking. I don’t want to make the game too easy for you. You’re too smart, that way.”
A giggle. “Okay! Let’s play!”
“I’m going to step out of the car for a second first,” Hector said, “but I’ll be right by the door, honey. I want a better look around. I want to find something really extra good to spy.”
Of course he was getting out of the car so he’d have a clear line of fire if needed. And Hector feared it likely would be. The air was thick with the possibility of ambush.
Hector first saw the cop—his bearing was all wrong. The man was too swarthy and gaunt for Ohio police.
Then Hector got a really good look at the man’s face.
Those too-familiar dead eyes: It was the man in the green car that had nearly run Hector over on the street after his talk with the Feds.
Taking aim at the man, Hector yelled, “Jimmy, it’s going south!”
The dead-eyed man looked Hector’s way then, pointing his gun at the author.
Hector emptied a chamber of the Colt into the man’s face, killed those dead eyes.
From there, it turned into a war zone. Bullets flying every which way. People screamed and glass began breaking. Reporters dashed for cover to save their own sorry asses. One of ’em turned in the wrong direction and actually got shot in the ass.
Still standing behind the cover of his car, its open driver’s side door to his back, Hector fished the pocket of his overcoat for more bullets and started thrusting them in chambers. He was up to four when he felt something rush close by his face. No time to finish. Hector took aim at another ersatz Dayton cop who was shooting at him. Hector shot that one in the forehead, yelling, “Shannon, stay down honey,” then, “I’ll be right back!”
Hector ran in a crouch toward the front door of the police H.Q.
Gibson was already ducking inside to seek shelter with a couple of his cops. Hector was sorely tempted to shoot the cowardly lawyer in the back. Hector hadn’t spotted her yet in the melee so he hollered, “Meg, kiss the ground!” Hector then shot a man in the throat who was about to shoot Jimmy in the back.
Hector saw that Kate was already stretched on the ground, sprawled on her back. Hector got a closer look and winced. Her face was obliterated. Katy had almost made the lobby door. Well, it was over for Katy now, and forever so.
Vito had neutralized that threat to himself. The bastard’s fate now rested in Meg’s hands.
A couple of cops—maybe honest ones—were huddled close by Katy’s corpse. One of those fellas had taken one in the pump. The other was clutching his belly.
Hector saw Meg, pressed up against the wall of the police HQ.
There was blood on her skirt. She wasn’t moving. Hector’s stomach kicked.
Two men in black hats and overcoats were running toward them, opening their jackets and reaching: two more torpedoes.
Jimmy yelled, “Hector, you get Meg. Those two lads coming are mine.”
Hector trusted Jimmy to know his own lethal capabilities, so he thrust his Colt down his waistband and slid an arm behind Meg’s back and the other under her knees, rising with her.
Good as his word, Jimmy shot both men between the eyes. Two machine guns clattered to the damp sidewalk from under the dead men’s overcoats. Jimmy fetched up one of the Tommy guns and began firing at a rooftop across the street from the police headquarters. It was full-scale war, now. Those TV cameras were unmanned, pointed uselessly at bloodstained concrete.
Hector could see Meg had caught a bullet in the thigh, just above the knee. C
rouching low again, he ran with her back to his Chevy, running through a hail of lead. He screamed, “Shannon, it’s Hector honey, open the back door, baby!”
Fifty-fifty the tyke would open the right door, the rear passenger’s side door. She did just that, bless her tiny heart.
He slung Meg into the back seat, covering her body with his own. Hector said, “Shannon, stay down there on the floor honey and cover your eyes.”
Hector had been an ambulance driver and a kind of a medic in the waning days of the Great War, so he knew some things.
The hole in Meg’s leg was close enough to her femoral artery—the bleeding hard enough—that it left Hector spooked. He looked around for something, anything, then focused on the seatbelt strap. He wrapped it around Meg’s thigh and cinched it just tight enough to slow her bleeding—he didn’t want to cost Meg a leg. He slammed the back door then and pulled out his Colt again to rejoin the battle.
Jimmy, Eliot, Pete and Arnold were still standing. Some presumably honest cops were backing them up. Jimmy and Pete were both making good use of the Thompsons. Jimmy locked eyes with Hector. Jimmy looked down at Kate’s corpse and then back at Hector. He read Jimmy’s lips:
Run.
Hector shook his head.
Hector read Jimmy’s lips again:
Run, now. Please. Go boyo! Jimmy jerked his head, indicating the road.
Do it, Hec, the Irishman’s lips said.
Torn, Hector shot at two more men. Then he ran around the back of his Chevy and slid behind the wheel.
Jimmy pointed down the road with his machine gun:
Go boyo! Run goddamn ya!
Hector didn’t want to go. Then he saw all the blood all over his back seat, Meg’s blood.
Shannon said, “What’s all that noise?”
“Fireworks, honey,” Hector said. “That’s all. Crazy fireworks for Christmas.”
Hector stamped the accelerator and peeled off the curb.
PART II
The Running Kind: A Hector Lassiter novel Page 14
