Final Price
Page 16
He explained their demands and how Stiles knew about the owner’s neighbor.
“This is a small town; next thing you know everybody and his brother will want that discount.”
Shamus only heard enough of Jake to hold up his end of the conversation. He felt consumed by the need to balance the account with Myrtle and Larry. Soon. Then again, what about Heather? Press found out too quick. Maybe he should lay low. People might remember Myrtle…The icehouse popped into his mind. He could smell Gran’s liniment oil.
“…think there’s any point to following up? I mean, how did you leave it with them?” Jake broke into his thoughts, but now his voice sounded like Gran’s.
“I left it with them leaving.” He felt more pressure in his head. Not now, Gran. “When Marlo laughs them out of the store, we probably have a shot.” Shamus felt like he was floating above his body. He watched himself hold a coherent conversation with Jake.
“You’re taking this well,” Jake said. “I’d be pretty hot.”
He heard her ring the cowbell. It matched the pulse in his temples.
“A tantrum won’t make us any money, and they aren’t being reasonable. I hope they come around. For now, I don’t have much choice but to file it under ‘shit happens’ and move on, right?” Shamus needed to get out of there.
“Too bad we don’t give medals for keeping your cool…oh my God!”
Shamus felt a gush of fluid on his upper lip. In an instant, he reunited with his floating self. He cupped his hand, and it filled with blood. Drops spotted paperwork on Jake’s desk.
Jake scrambled in a desk drawer, and Shamus tilted his head back. He swallowed blood and felt his gorge begin to rise. He accepted a wad of tissue and covered his nose. He felt dizzy.
“Can you make it to the bathroom? Should I call 911?” Jake sounded like Jake again. Shamus waved him away and took a fresh bunch of tissue. He threw the soggy batch in the trash and walked onto the showroom toward the one-stall restroom.
The other salesmen gawked.
His nose stopped bleeding, but he looked like he’d been shot. He wiped crusty streaks of blood off his face, and his head cleared. He got Gran’s message.
Shamus let the negotiation replay in his head. He wadded up some paper towels and screamed his frustration into them. The paper muffled the sound. When he looked up at the mirror, his face was distorted with rage.
Sure, he’d file it under “shit happens” all right. Then he’d put it under his new “shit happens back” file.
What was left of his caution lay in a blood-soaked wad in Jake’s office.
CHAPTER 39
Early to Bed
Shamus didn’t remember much of the rest of his shift. When it was over, he drove in the direction of his apartment just long enough to fool anyone who saw him leave.
He headed toward Newark, Delaware. Myrtle, bless her heart, mentioned that Larry Stiles lived in Carpenter Woods, but not exactly where. No problem. He had all night.
He already knew where Myrtle lived. The artist community of Arden, located in the northern part of the county. Bunch of hippies. Residents leased the land they lived on. No one actually owned their property. So communal.
Shamus drove along the rows of small houses. No garages, and Shamus figured Stiles for a homebody. Soon enough, Shamus spotted the bright red pickup. Just in case, he drove through the rest of the development. Stiles was the sole owner of a new red Dodge model. Nice truck. Shamus hoped he hadn’t paid too much for it.
The lights in the house were out, and Shamus was thankful Myrtle was such a blabbermouth. According to her, Stiles had lived alone since his wife passed several years ago.
“You’ll be with her soon, Larry, my man,” Shamus said aloud inside his car. He drove away and pointed his old car north. He needed to get to bed, too. Big day planned tomorrow.
CHAPTER 40
Out Like a Champ
Greenville, Wednesday morning
Shamus awoke early and pulled on his painter’s coveralls. He packed a large, zippered canvas bag. He consulted the DART bus schedule and finished eating folded toaster-waffles over the sink. He called work and croaked a message for Jake that he wouldn’t make it in today.
He parked in the Newark train station lot and went to the bus stop to wait. He wore his cap and sunglasses like any other hard-working painter. The bus arrived, and Shamus saw he should reach Carpenter Woods in plenty of time to beat Stiles home for lunch.
He hoisted the heavy pack and got off at his stop. Despite the pleasant temperatures, Shamus was dripping sweat by the time he reached Stiles’s house. The street was quiet, and there was no sign of the nicest red truck in all of Carpenter Woods.
On one side of the house Shamus saw a ground-level window that wasn’t visible from the front. Perfect. A small white tarp muffled the sound of broken glass nicely. After he cleared the stray fragments, he covered the bottom of the frame and wriggled in. He checked his watch again and saw that it was a little after eleven o’clock. Better hurry.
He pulled on his gloves and looked around. The basement was neat, and in addition to laundry machines he could see a nice set of woodworking tools.
He went up the stairs and listened. The heft of the revolver in his waistband gave him reassurance. Nobody home. Shamus checked the path Stiles would take. The front door opened into a narrow hallway. To the left a coat closet, and to the immediate right the living room, where he could see a comfortable couch and a huge television. The TV must have been added after the demise of the lovely wife. A guy’s setup all the way, and no expense spared on the audio.
Inside the room, he saw framed photos of a woman who had to be the missus and a baseball bat on a stand. It was autographed by the entire world-champion Phillies team from 1980. He found the remote and turned on the television. It drew power with a low hum, and the surround-sound speakers crackled to life. He hit the mute button and unhooked the wire that controlled the feed to all the speakers. He took it off mute and cranked the volume all the way up. Green bars crawled silently across the screen. He switched the set off and reconnected the speakers.
Shamus slipped the remote into a pouch on the front of his coveralls and picked up the bat.
Shamus’s heart jumped when he heard the distinctive V8 rumble of Stiles’s truck. He grabbed the bat, tiptoed down the hall, and opened the closet door to duck inside. He jammed himself in between a mass of coats. No time to wriggle behind them, but he just managed to get the door closed.
He heard keys in the lock and slid the bat down his side, the shaft held up by layers of coats. The smell of mothballs and faint perfume wrapped around his face. Shamus reached inside the coveralls for the comfort of the revolver and heard the lock turn. He needed to pee, but it would have to wait.
The door squeaked. He heard Stiles sigh. Shamus braced himself. The seconds dragged by, and his urge to piss grew stronger. At last he heard and felt the big man’s footsteps go down the hall to the kitchen. The clank of the keys on the kitchen table was a relief.
Shamus opened the closet door just enough to poke the remote toward the living room. He took a deep breath and pressed the button.
Powerful system! The speakers blasted sound through the house.
“Have you been hurt in an accident? Then you need a lawyer! Call Schick and Spivey at area code three-zero-two…” Shamus closed the door to a crack.
“What the hell?” Shamus barely made out Stiles’s voice, but he felt his footsteps down the hall. A jingle for dog food began. Shamus saw Stiles round the corner to turn off the television. Now! Now!
“Where the hell is the damn remote?” Stiles’s back was to the closet. The chorus of happy puppies drowned out the creak of the door. Stiles moved toward the TV. Shamus held the bat above his head and charged. Stiles turned a second before Shamus pivoted his body and swung for the fences. He aimed at the man’s head.
“Here’s one from the team!” Shamus whooped. Energy supercharged his arms and shoulders.
His ears began to ache, and he realized the TV was still blasting. He lowered the volume and left the set on to provide some background noise.
Blood ran from Stiles’s skull, and the man didn’t budge. Good enough. Chalk up another favor to the world.
“Okay, big man, we’ve got some more business together.” Shamus grabbed one arm and started to drag Stiles toward the stairs. The head left a trail where the bat had struck him. Jeez, he was heavy! Shamus began to sweat again, and soon he felt winded. Stiles’s body was only a third of the way up the stairs, but Shamus had to rest.
“Damn! You’re still a pain, you know that?” This wasn’t going to work. Shamus stood to think of another option. His heart skipped a beat when he felt a hand grip his leg.
“Uhhh.” Stiles’s eyes fluttered, and his fingers tightened around Shamus’s ankle. He kicked and pulled away. He managed to free his leg but lost his balance. Shamus tumbled down the stairs and felt pain flare on his side. His heart hammered in his chest, and he rolled over in time to see Stiles rise up. Shamus scurried backwards.
“Sonofabitch.” Stiles sounded drunk, but he could walk.
Shamus stared. He’d crushed the man’s head—he knew he did. Too late, he realized he left the bat near the bottom of the stairs. Stiles saw it too.
“Out…my…house…” Stiles picked up the slugger. His own blood marked the wood.
Panic engulfed Shamus. The man looked enormous from his position on the floor. The bat loomed like a telephone pole.
“Scared now…” Stiles staggered closer and lifted the bat.
Shamus fumbled at his waistband. He wasn’t going to make it. He groped for the handle of the revolver, found it, but the bat was already swinging down at him. He tugged at the pistol and shut his eyes.
The boards next to Shamus’s head jumped from the impact.
“Goddammit. Hold still,” Stiles wheezed.
Shamus snapped his eyes open and saw Stiles lose his footing and collapse on top of him. The weight forced the air out of his lungs, and Shamus couldn’t scream when Stiles’s hand groped for his eyes. His right hand was pinned, but he could still move his finger.
The shots sounded nothing like when he fired on Patel. Stiles’s belly muffled the blasts, and Shamus squeezed off every round. Something like a cross between a scream and a groan escaped the big man’s lips, and Shamus felt his gun hand grow warm with the flow of blood. He wriggled out from under the still form and took a minute to catch his breath.
His side hurt, but he didn’t think anything was broken. Joy rose in his chest. He won! Euphoria pushed away the pain. His white painter suit was now two-tone, and his arm was drenched in crimson. The odors that mixed in the hallway were the smell of victory.
He glanced at the stairs. No way.
“All right, change of plan, Larry. I hope you don’t mind. Adapt and overcome, right, Mr. Protector?”
Stiles raised no objections, and Shamus found it much easier to drag him on the floor. The belly wounds leaked a wide red swath all the way to the basement door. The bloody head made a thump, thump, thump sound down the stairs.
Too bad he couldn’t tell Flannigan about this. He wanted to gloat, but he didn’t need the munchkin anymore to tweak that stupid cop, Chang.
He reached into his bag and pulled out a kitchen trash bag, then picked up a small handsaw. He glanced around and smiled. He returned the small tool and selected a large bow saw off the wall.
“Don’t worry, you won’t feel a thing.”
CHAPTER 41
Arts and Crafts
Shamus whistled the whole way up to Arden. He enjoyed the throb of the V8 in Stiles’s truck, and he was impressed with the commanding view. He wore fresh coveralls and took care to keep his speed under control. Wouldn’t do to get pulled over now.
Almost quarter past two. Myrtle taught a pottery class in West Chester, just over the state line in Pennsylvania. She would probably get home by eight o’clock, which didn’t leave him much time. He shouldn’t rush great art, but he’d just have to do his best.
He parked the truck in the winding gravel driveway. It was an old farm house with a large garage extension Myrtle used as her studio. Myrtle confessed to being nervous sometimes because she didn’t think her neighbors could see or hear what went on at her property. With her husband gone, she sometimes felt like it was too secluded for her. Shamus had told her to treasure her privacy.
He borrowed a pair of bolt cutters from Stiles and used those to let himself into her studio from the outside. He saw another entrance connected to the house. On one side she kept finished works, which included some stunning pieces on custom-built shelves. A large worktable took up the adjacent wall.
Aha! The Saturn-brand octagonal kiln. Shamus recognized it at once. Myrtle had talked his ear off about it one day.
She’d taken advantage of his manners by giving him chapter and verse on the thing’s operation. He knew it could reach temperatures upwards of two thousand degrees. It also had a timer that would tell it when to shut off. He didn’t remember everything, of course, but he’d gotten the gist.
He plopped the canvas bag onto the table and tried to recall art classes from long ago in Ohio. He checked her supply of porcelain glazes and found one he thought to be a good choice. “Toreador Scarlet” sounded suitable. Once he mixed the glaze, he set the kiln’s timer.
Shamus marveled at the beauty of the sunset. All this art and his own creative effort put him in a poetic spirit. He even turned his face into a canvas of sorts when he borrowed some foundation to cover the scratches from Stiles down his cheek. She had plenty of painkillers, but Shamus stuck to the over-the-counter type for his ribs. No time for sleep now.
He waited for Myrtle in the main house. Couldn’t stay in the studio. His hands itched from the gloves, but he bore the discomfort like a professional.
Just for fun, he checked Myrtle’s mail table but didn’t see a cell phone bill. That was good. Neither did he see any sign of firearms. She certainly didn’t seem the type. He knew she didn’t trust banks. She’d squirreled away close to twenty thousand dollars cash in a shoe box in her closet. Score!
When headlights splashed across the living room wall, he ducked. She would see the truck and assume Larry was here. Shamus giggled from behind a couch, pistol at the ready. The door opened, and she came in alone.
“Helloo? Larry, are you here? Larry? What’s burning?” The musty old rugs absorbed the sound of her voice. The tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway served as a counterpoint to her questions.
Shamus heard her put her purse down and then sniff the air again. “Ugh!” She moved toward the garage door that led to her studio. Shamus was used to the smell by this time, but it was pungent. Wait till she opens the door! He was glad the kiln shut down a couple hours ago, but it was probably still warm.
“Larry, are you in the studio? What have you got in the kiln? Something in there is burning. Larry?” She opened the door.
Shamus tried not to laugh. He heard a final, “Oh my goodness!” when she opened the door and got the full effect.
He heard her run across the room, and then he tiptoed over to the doorway. Yeesh! It really stunk in there! He saw Myrtle, with her back to him, put on long, heat-resistant gloves. She picked up the tongs near the kiln and lifted the lid. Shamus could see a fresh pall of smoke rise along with intense heat shimmers.
“Oh! What in the world got in here? Larry, what did you do?”
She reached in with the tongs to wrestle out the object. Shamus was impressed. She was stronger than she looked.
He could hear the crackle across the room when the thick glaze,
still hot from the firing, cooled unevenly in the open air. Despite the rough treatment and his novice stature, he thought the final result turned out well.
Myrtle dropped the tongs and staggered back. She grabbed the wall for support. The bright red mass stared back. It smoldered but was still recognizable as a human skull. The moisture from it had produced radical flaws in the glaze that was so over-applied it puddled to form its own glassy base.
Shamus leaned against the doorframe. “I wasn’t sure if I’d get a nice shrunken head, or a glossy red statue.”
Myrtle screamed and looked over at him.
He walked into the converted garage. “The way it turned out, I guess you could go either way. I thought maybe a hood ornament to go on his truck, but maybe you could do a shelf for him? I don’t know. You’re the expert.”
“Shamus, what did you do?” Her voice quivered.
“A decent job for my first try. You shouldn’t be so critical. I’m self-taught, you know.” He moved closer. She seemed petrified, but he didn’t count her out just yet.
“What do you want?”
“Before we get to that, come over here. You’re a little too handy with those tongs.”
Myrtle raced for the outside door. Shamus smiled. There wasn’t going to be a chase through the woods. The door was locked tight. Myrtle jiggled the handle to no avail.
No way out but through him. First flight, then fight. Good for her.
She picked up the tongs again and came at him. Before she took two steps, he drew his revolver and pointed it at her nose.
“You know, if you’d stuck up for me a little yesterday, you might be looking forward to a future of porcelain wishes and caviar dreams. But now you’re going to have to focus on making it though the next fifteen minutes.”