by Anthony Izzo
Mike leveled the .45, intent on blasting the mole back through the guy’s face. The guy laughed, a phlegmy chuckle that added to Mike’s already considerable nausea.
“You aren’t gonna shoot me.”
“Try me.”
“You fucked up that arson job, O’Donnell. It’s all over the news.”
“I’d stop talking if I were you,” Mike said.
The guy closed the closet door. He brushed off the front of his sport coat. His casual manner made Mike want to pull the trigger even more.
“Hark’s got a car waiting outside for you. He wants to talk.”
“Suppose I don’t feel like taking a ride.”
“I think we can persuade you.”
“How’s that?”
“You’ll see. Let’s go.”
“You kill her?” Mike said and nodded, indicating Jasmine.
Again that phleghmy laugh. “You think I’d tell you? Now let’s fucking go.”
He started to reach inside the sport coat and Mike stepped forward and raised the gun and brought it down on an arc, the butt of the handle cracking against the guy’s cheek and crumpling him against the wall. Mike hammered the gun down again, striking the base of the skull, and the guy flopped to the floor.
Now he heard another voice, a deep base, coming from the front of the house, saying, “What the fuck’s taking him so long?”
He had two options: charge out the front door and blast his way out, which would definitely bring the cops to Smith Street, or retreat to the bedroom and opt for climbing out a window. It would be the bedroom. It would also provide a better defensive position, for they couldn’t attack from behind.
On the floor, the guy groaned, and Mike kicked him in the ribs. He grunted again. Mike retreated to the bedroom. He shoved the twin bed around Jasmine’s body and jammed it up against the door, hoping it would at least slow down Hark’s men.
The bedroom had two windows, the one on the right looking over their dirt patch of a yard, and the left one looking over the Hoolihans’ driveway next door. He looked out the right window and saw one of them, tall as a smokestack, rounding the rear of the house. He went to the opposite window and saw a shorter, skinnier one in a leather jacket coming up the Hoolihans’ driveway. Both exits were blocked, and soon they would figure out he was in the bedroom and come knocking at the door.
No sooner did he think that when someone smacked the door. The twin bed screeched on the floor, moved maybe three inches. Another few good hits and the bed would be across the room.
He would take his chances with short and skinny. He went back to the driveway window. The dimness of the room provided him cover from the outside. Another whack at the door.
He reached over and unlatched the window lock. The guy was looking down the driveway, toward the backyard. The death smell in the room grew thick. Mike lifted the window. Now the guy in the driveway turned. He opened his mouth to yell and reached inside his jacket and Mike shot him in the leg, just below the kneecap. He went down howling and holding his leg. Shit. Didn’t want to opt for gunplay, but it was me or him, Mike thought. That would draw the Buffalo PD for sure. Maybe he could claim self-defense. And just try and explain having a loaded .45 and no permit.
He hoisted himself out the window and dropped to the ground. The guy in the leather jacket was now spinning around on the ground like a crazy break-dancer, holding his leg and moaning. Inside, he heard the bedroom door give with a crack.
He’d run for the Hoolihans’ backyard, hop the fence, and cut through St. Stephen’s parking lot. Now the guy on the ground was yelling in a high shriek, “He’s here! The driveway!”
Mike had no stomach for putting another bullet in the man, so he ran down the driveway, hurtling one of the Hoolihans’ kids’ bikes, a blue Huffy. He reached the end of the house. The gated picket fence was in view, and beyond that, St. Stephen’s parking lot and freedom. He’d get away, then figure out how to find Mom.
From the corner of his eye he saw a blur and then the guy slammed into him. He flew sideways. The gun dropped to the ground. He hit the concrete, shoulder stinging, and rolled three times. He thought a small bus had taken a detour just to flatten him.
He looked up to see smokestack standing over him. No wonder he’d been flattened. The big man wore a skintight ribbed turtleneck that hugged his torso, the muscles looking like sculpted ivory with the sweater. No waist, V-shaped, wearing loose black pants and engineer boots.
“Those steroids work wonders,” Mike said and sat up, his shoulder singing with pain.
“Shut the fuck up,” big and ugly said. He stomped on Mike’s toes and for a moment the pain was so bad Mike thought he might swallow his tongue. Mike pulled his foot away, his toes feeling hot and numb. Looking around, he saw the .45 on the ground, about ten feet away. The goon took out a chrome revolver and pointed it at Mike.
Mike put up his hands. “All right, I take back the steroid comment.”
The goon cocked the hammer on the revolver. Mike thought it prudent to shut his mouth.
He looked at the Hoolihans’ rear porch. No one out there, only a silver ashtray on the railing and a Schmidt’s beer can. The lights were dim inside, which meant no help from them. The number of crimes that went unsolved in this neighborhood was a joke. People who watched from their front windows while kids were shot to death would say they didn’t see anything. They didn’t want their houses firebombed or their living rooms sprayed with bullets in reprisal.
Now, the goon looked down, face impassive. Mike began crab walking backward, hoping to reach the gun. The big guy followed, and when he got close enough, Mike flicked up a foot and kicked him in the crotch. The goon winced, giving Mike enough time to grab for the .45. He gripped it, swung around. If he could take big ugly out, he had a chance to get across the church parking lot.
He had the man in his sights. A look of surprise crossed the guy’s face, as if to say this wasn’t supposed to happen. Mike exerted pressure on the trigger. Could he do it again?
Something hard whacked against the side of his head. It felt like someone was pressing thumbtacks into his brain. He dropped the gun and covered his head with his arms, expecting another blow. Instead, he heard a familiar voice say, “Get up. Hark’s waiting.”
He uncovered his head. Standing over him was the monster from Hark’s warehouse, still in a dark suit. He wore dark shoes, a dark shirt, and a dark tie. Keeping the undertaker look going, apparently. He held a leather sap in his hand, and now he tucked it back under his suit coat.
Now the other guy, the one in the turtleneck, limped over and stood next to Hark’s main man. Mike hoped he at least gave the guy sore nuts for a few days. The one he had kicked pulled out a sleek automatic and pointed it at Mike.
“The car’s waiting.”
“Not much for joyrides,” Mike said, but stood up. He could feel the spot where a lump would form on his head. The leather-jacketed thug shoved the gun into his ribs and jabbed. In the driveway, Mike saw two more of Hark’s men with the one he had shot. They had his arms over their shoulders, like football players helping an injured teammate off the field. He heard soft whimpering coming from the guy. That probably didn’t go over well with the other thugs.
They reached the end of the driveway. Two cars, Toyotas from the looks of them, were parked in front of the O’Donnell house. He heard rap music echoing faintly from a house down the street. He hoped to see someone walking the block, or sticking their head out a door, but the street was empty. Hark’s men helped the wounded man into the backseat of the rear car.
The man who had hid in the closet exited the front door. Blood trickled down his head, and he had removed his sport coat and was pressing it against his skull. He, too, got in the rear vehicle.
Mike was led to the front car. One of them opened the rear passenger door and shoved Mike inside. He saw why they had leverage. His mother sat in the backseat, her hands bound by an extension cord. Her skin had gone waxy and white, and a wet ra
ttle came from her mouth as she struggled to breathe. Eyes closed, she rested her head against the window.
“Mom?”
No answer.
“Mom, c’mon, it’s Mike.” He nudged her shoulder. She moaned. Then she lifted her head and opened her eyes. They were wet and bleary and damned if she didn’t look like a reanimated corpse. He hated himself for thinking that, wanted to shoot himself in the guts for it.
“What’d you do, Michael?”
“I’m sorry, Ma.”
“Who are they? Are they Schuler’s friends?”
“I don’t think these guys are anybody’s friends.”
The man from the warehouse climbed into the driver’s seat. He was so big it looked as if he were at the wheel of a clown car. The one in the black turtleneck took the passenger seat.
“If my hands weren’t tied, I’d give you a smack. Who are they?”
“Hark’s people.”
“The warehouse guy? Oh, Michael, tell me you didn’t get caught up with them.”
The driver started the car and they pulled away from the curb.
The guy in the passenger seat, the one Mike had kicked, said, “What’s wrong with her?”
“None of your goddamned business,” Mike said.
“No, really, she sick?”
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t. But she put up a pretty good fight for an old sick broad.”
“I should have shot you on sight,” Mike said.
The guy laughed. “Yeah, you fucked that up, too, didn’t ya?”
Mom leaned her head against the window. She closed her eyes and sighed. “What are you into, Michael? Is it drugs?”
“No drugs.”
“Getting a lecture from his mother, some hard-ass. I thought this guy was good,” Turtleneck said.
“He is, Ed,” said the driver, his expression not changing.
“It took three of you to catch me, and I still almost got away.”
Mom said, “You didn’t answer my question.”
Mike looked out the windshield. They were on South Park now, headed toward the city, passing the low brick structures that made up the Perry Street projects. Outside, at the curbs, were the rectangular garbage containers with CITY OF BUFFALO in white on the side. Mike saw a rat scurry between two of the containers. Apparently the garbage containers the city required weren’t very effective.
“Michael?”
He didn’t want to tell her. He thought just maybe if he did right now, it would push her over the edge, in some crazy way accelerate the cancer and cause her to shrivel and die right before his eyes. His mother was no fool, and she had most likely known. The old Irish of the First Ward didn’t keep secrets, and when they ran into each other at B-Kwik or Tops on Bailey, they would stop in the aisle, carts askew, hands waving and gesturing, sharing whose daughter was pregnant and whose son had reading problems in school, all of it discussed with the fervor of Mideast peace negotiations. “Not drugs. Burglary. This one was arson.”
Please don’t cry, he thought. Just don’t fucking cry, because if you do, I might start.
“I’d hoped for better.”
“This is what you got.”
“I’m going to rest now,” she said.
“Come on.”
“Resting.”
The guy in the passenger seat turned. His turtleneck looked as if it were trying to swallow his head. “Guess she don’t want to talk, huh?”
“Mind your business.”
They pulled up in a small parking lot near the rear of a brick building. A blue steel door was marked with a sign reading EMPLOYEES ONLY. There were no other cars in the lot and any hope Mike had of someone spotting them vanished. The second car pulled in behind them and Hark’s men got out. Mike looked out the rear window to see two of the guys helping the one with the gunshot. His skin tone resembled a pale pea soup color. They dragged him past and one of them opened the steel door. The driver of Mike’s vehicle got out and said, “Call Doc Li, and tell him to pack some morphine in his goody bag. Can’t take our man to the hospital with a bullet in him.”
Hark’s men flung the doors open. One grabbed Mike by the arm and for a brief moment he considered smacking the guy, but even if he overpowered the man, they still had Mom, and he couldn’t very well wrestle her away from the other giant. They shoved him along, his mom behind him, and the one called Ed opened the door. Inside, a hallway filled with gray light caused Mike to squint, trying to adjust to the semidarkness. At the end of the hall he saw a pool table, and beyond it a bar that took up the center of the room. Somehow he didn’t think his hosts brought him here to buy a round of martinis. Another door, this one a six panel, was to the right. Turtleneck Ed opened it and this time Mike was forced downstairs, someone jabbing a gun barrel hard into his back. He reached the bottom of the stairs and wound up in a room with a cracked concrete floor. Cases of beer had been stacked against the wall, brands ranging from Amstel to Tecate. On the opposite wall, another door. Someone flicked on fluorescent lights, and they hummed to life.
He waited for his mother to come down, but instead Ed lumbered down the stairs. He stopped on the bottom step, folded his arms.
“Where is she?”
“Your mom’s sick, right?”
“Beyond sick.”
“How beyond?”
“She has a couple months, at most.”
“We’re putting her in Mr. Hark’s private office. She needs rest.”
“What is this place?”
The man gave him a hard stare, one that indicated he thought Mike to be an idiot. “One of Mr. Hark’s establishments.”
Heavy thuds came from the stairs. The one in the black suit came down, the other guy stepping out of his way. He leaned on a stack of beer cases. “Mr. Hark will be here tomorrow. He told me not to hurt you, that he’ll deal with it. He doesn’t like disappointments.”
Turtleneck Ed went back upstairs.
“That’s the impression I’m getting,” Mike said.
“You’ve caused him two messes tonight. He’s coming down to meet with you personally.”
“I’m sure the pleasure will be all his.”
The dark-suited man went to the door and jiggling the knob said, “Let me show you something.”
He opened the door, entered the darkened room, and a moment later someone stumbled out and flopped onto the concrete floor. The man looked up. One eye was black and swollen shut, the nose a mashed tomato. The front of his shirt was torn as if by animals, and sticky blood stained the shirt.
In wheezing, wet breaths, Schuler said, “Nice of you to show.” He rested his head back on the concrete.
“By tomorrow night, you’ll wish you had never signed on for this. Mr. Hark will see to it.”
Got to get out of here, Mike thought. Even if he called the cops and they wound up charging him and shipping him to Attica or Clinton, Mom would be saved, and maybe Schuler. At least from whatever fate Hark had lined up for him.
Mike went over to Schuler, gripped his arm, and pulled him up. Wrapping Schuler’s arm around his neck, Mike dragged Schuler to the wall, sat him down, and leaned him against the beer cases. Schuler stared at Mike through his good eye, and to Mike it seemed accusatory: You got me into this. He had. He had been the one to call Schuler, and he had been the one to bail out on the arson job. But try explaining to Hark that carnival freaks had shown up on the site and scared them off.
“So?” Schuler said.
“I feel like you look.”
“That room, Mike? We’re done.”
He imagined a soundproof room where a bullet would be delivered into the backs of their skulls. There were probably blood and brains on the walls.
“At least it will be quick,” Mike said.
“Who are you kidding?”
Mike looked up at the big man. He observed the conversation with a small smile on his face, as if he were watching actors in a play.
“What do you mean?”
; “It’s like the Spanish Inquisition in there, Mike.” Schuler coughed, and air came out his nose in wet, snuffling gasps. “Know how my nose got like this?”
Mike wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
“One of those meat-tenderizing hammers, that’s how.”
Mike winced. Hark’s man started up the stairs, chuckling low. Mike thought he heard the guy whisper to himself, “This is gonna be good.”
The door slammed shut and Mike heard the click of a lock.
“They were waiting in my house,” Schuler said. “I’m standing at the bathroom sink and one of them slips in behind me and I see him and a big gun in the mirror and it’s pointed at my head.”
“They followed us.”
“To the site?”
“I’m guessing they did. Or maybe saw it on the news.”
“Whatever they did, we’re screwed. We should have just torched the whole place. Fuck those costumed freaks.”
Mike sat up, the rough wall digging into his back. “And have witnesses? How is that any better?”
“My whole face hurts.”
“A lot more is going to hurt if we don’t find a way out.”
Mike stood up and looked around. No windows in the basement, only damp concrete walls. He tried the door to the other room, yanked on the handle, but it didn’t budge. He climbed the stairs, thinking it useless to try, but he jiggled the knob anyway. The door held tight.
“Any luck?” Schuler asked from downstairs.
“Nothing.”
Upstairs, he heard the slow thump of bass as someone had fired up a country tune, maybe Alan Jackson. The music seemed to make the floor joists shake and it annoyed Mike. The music would also provide another purpose when the time came. No one would hear their screams.
CHAPTER 9
In the early morning, David and Reverend Frank pulled into the parking lot of the Savings Motor Lodge. A steady sheet of rain fell around them, forcing the wipers to work overtime. Thunder and lightning echoed around them, and the center of the parking lot had pooled with brownish water. Fighting exhaustion and the storm, they had decided to take refuge for the night. It was only a hundred more miles to Routersville, but David’s eyes felt grainy and heavy. Even the high-test coffee he picked up from the truck stop on 81 failed to keep him alert.
