Shoot the Woman First

by Wallace Stroby

  The rain had moved on. She saw flashes of lightning in the clouds above the city. How many miles away? No way to tell. And nothing for it. She walked.

  * * *

  She kept to the shadows just off the street, ready to hide if she saw headlights. She was limping, hips and back aching with every step, but the exertion warmed her, drove out some of the chill.

  After a while she came to a block where the houses were lit, the yards small but neat. Urban homesteaders, gentrification on its way. A Honda Civic was parked at the curb. She looked in the driver’s window, saw a locking bar across the steering wheel, a blinking red light on the dash. She walked on.

  There was a party on the next block. A two-story house with all the windows lit, music coming out, voices. The driveway was full, cars lining both sides of the street.

  She watched from a stand of trees on the corner. Headlights came toward her, and she backed farther into the shadows. The car passed her, pulled to the curb a half block away. A couple in their thirties—the man white, the woman black—got out, the woman carrying a bottle of wine. The man locked the car behind them, and they went up the driveway to a side door of the house. The door opened for them, music and laughter spilling out.

  She ran gloved fingers through her damp hair, knowing how she must look. The jacket was reversible, so she turned it inside out to hide the worst of the rips and stains. She brushed twigs and mud from her jeans, zipped the jacket higher. Then she crossed the street, walked up the driveway.

  She went in without knocking, into a warm kitchen crowded with people. Trays of cold cuts and bread on the table, a sideboard crowded with liquor bottles, Sinatra coming from speakers somewhere.

  People glanced at her, then turned back to their own conversations. They were all in their thirties, early forties, young professionals. She smiled as best she could, wound her way through them, took a wine bottle from the sideboard as she passed. The living room was just as crowded, the music louder here. A woman in a black dress and pearls looked at the bottle and said, “You must be psychic.”

  Crissa handed it to her. “Bathroom?”

  “Upstairs. Second door on the right.” The woman looked at her more closely. “Honey, you look like you’ve had a rough night.”

  Crissa went by her and up the carpeted staircase. In the hallway, three people stood outside the closed bathroom door. At the end of the corridor a door was half open, light on inside.

  She went in, and it was what she hoped. A bedroom, coats laid out on the bedspread. She eased the door shut behind her, started going through pockets. There was a set of Hyundai keys in the second coat she searched. She pocketed them, caught a glimpse of herself in a wall mirror. Her hair was matted and tangled, her face scratched in half a dozen places.

  She went back into the hallway, forced a smile for the trio outside the bathroom, caught a whiff of marijuana from inside.

  Back downstairs, the woman in black watching her now. Crissa nodded at her, went through the kitchen and out the side door.

  On the street, she got out the keys, pressed the UNLOCK button. A half block down, a white Elantra beeped and flashed its lights.

  She walked to it, got behind the wheel, started the engine. As she pulled away from the curb, she looked back at the house. No one had come out after her.

  She waited a block until she popped on the headlights. Then she made a left, followed by another left, headed back the way she’d come.

  * * *

  There was a single fire truck outside the house, sending a stream of water into an upstairs window. No flames now, but gray smoke still billowing up. A Detroit Metro SUV was parked behind the fire truck, rollers on, their light reflected in the runoff water coursing down the gutter. Two uniformed officers stood beside it, looking up at the house, bored. They turned to watch her as she drove past.

  She went up two blocks, then doubled back on a parallel street, headlights off, and drove back to the garage. The padlock on the front gate was intact. There was no sign anyone else had been there.

  She parked on the sidewalk, left the engine running, got out. The air smelled of smoke.

  There was a spare-tire kit in the trunk, a short-handled tire iron. She carried it to the gate, slipped the shaft into the rusty chain, wedged one end against a crossbar, then pulled hard with both hands. On the third pull, a link snapped, and the chain rattled loose. She threaded it through the gate, tossed it aside.

  The hinges were rusty, squealing as she shouldered the gate open. The duffel was where she’d left it. She pulled it out of the drum, and for the first time noticed the hole on one side of the bag, a larger one on the other. A bullet had gone straight through.

  She slung the strap over her shoulder, looked at the bay door. He’s gone, she thought. And it could have played out another way just as easily, you lying dead in there, or back in the house. But he’d gotten her out of there, just as he’d gotten Wayne out of that car in Houston.

  She went back through the gate, put the duffel and tire iron in the trunk, shut it. Low thunder sounded in the west. She pulled back onto the street and drove away.

  * * *

  On the edge of the city, she found a phone booth outside a convenience store, called 911. She gave the location of the garage as best she could, said she’d seen men inside, heard gunshots. The operator was still asking questions when Crissa hung up. It had been risky to call, but she couldn’t leave him there, forgotten, alone.

  At the airport, she parked the Elantra in a long-term lot, caught a shuttle bus to her hotel. She carried the duffel up to her room, left it on the bed.

  The tremors were on her now. She undressed, showered in water as hot as she could stand, then sat in the tub, let the spray rain down on her. She closed her eyes, all of it running through her mind again. The punch of the AK round into her back. Gunshots in the dark. Larry bent over the duffel in the shadowed garage, still and silent. Charlie Glass, shot through the face, falling across her.

  After a while, the pain in her back and hips began to fade. She was calmer now; the shaking had stopped. She turned off the water, toweled dry, wiped steam from the mirror and twisted to look at her back. There was a softball-sized bruise under her right shoulder blade, purple in the center, yellow at the edges. Not enough pain for a broken rib. She’d been lucky.

  She dressed in sweatpants and T-shirt, then unzipped the duffel and spilled money out onto the bed. She pulled up a chair and began to count.

  A hundred and sixty thousand in the bag. So the count they’d done at the house had been good. Eighty thousand of it was Larry’s share. It belonged to his people, if she could find them.

  She went to the window, looked out at the night. Cordell and his partner were out there somewhere. Her fatigue was giving way to anger, at what they’d done, at herself for not reading the signs beforehand. For being too slow, for letting it all fall apart around her. For the deaths of two good men.

  But there was nothing she could do about any of that now, nothing more to be gained here. She’d gotten away clean, with her share of the money. It would make no sense to go after them for the rest, even if she could find them. And there was little chance they’d come after her. They were amateurs who’d gotten lucky. They wouldn’t know where to start.

  It was over. Time to go home.

  She put the money back in the duffel, then stretched out on the bed, turned off the light, knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. She still lay like that, eyes open, when pale dawn filled the window.

  EIGHT

  Burke lost his last three hundred betting the pass line on a black kid in his twenties who’d been shooting hot for the last fifteen minutes. Players were elbow-to-elbow at the table, had migrated over from other games, drawn by the shouts, hoping to get in on the streak while the kid was still golden.

  Burke watched the red dice bounce across green felt, strike the far wall, and fall back. Snake eyes.

  “Gotdamn,” the kid said, and a moan seemed to come up from the oth
er players. The stickman raked in the chips, Burke’s three black ones among them, said, “New shooter,” and looked at him. Burke was on the kid’s left, so the next roll would go to him. He shook his head.

  He’d walked in the door with three grand, had started strong at roulette, then blackjack. An hour later, he’d been up five thousand, but then the whole thing had started to go south on him. He’d moved on to craps, hoping to catch some of the kid’s fire, but had brought his bad luck along with him.

  Burke turned away, got out his cigarettes. A hollow-eyed man in overalls and John Deere cap elbowed past him, took his place at the table.

  Burke moved through the casino toward the bar, music and electronic sounds blaring from the banks of slot machines. He lit his tenth Newport of the day, snapped the lighter closed, dropped it in the pocket of his suit coat, fished out his silver money clip. Two twenties and a five. Time to call it a night.

  The barmaid was a heavy blonde in a white shirt, red vest, sleeve garters. He took a stool, and she set a tin ashtray in front of him. “Maker’s Mark,” he said, “ice,” and put a twenty on the bar.

  The barmaid brought his drink, took his money. He tapped ash from the Newport, looked at his Rolex. Nine P.M., but it felt like midnight.

  When the barmaid brought his change, he pushed two singles toward her, took a pull from his drink. A voice close by said, “Easy to lose track of time in here, isn’t it?”

  He looked to his left. Two stools down was a woman in her early thirties, red hair piled high, green shimmery dress, small spangled purse under one arm. Working girl, he thought. The suit drew them every time.

  “Easy enough,” he said.

  “What’s that you’re drinking?”

  He told her.

  “I’m more of a Jack Daniel’s girl myself.” She moved onto the stool beside him. He could smell her perfume now, sandalwood. She took a pack of Pall Malls from her purse, gingerly pulled one out between long fingernails. “Simple girl. Simple tastes.”

  He got out his lighter. She put the cigarette between her lips, leaned forward. As he lit it for her, she touched his hand. She straightened, blew smoke to the side, said, “Thanks.”

  “How’s your night going?” he said.

  “Could be better. Yours?”

  “Same here. But I’m hoping for an improvement.”

  She gave that a smile. The barmaid came over. “Jack on the rocks,” the redhead said, then to Burke, “I’m Lucinda.” She held out a hand. “Like the singer.”

  He shook it. The palm was cool and dry. “Frank.”

  “Anybody ever call you Frankie? You never hear that anymore.”

  “Not since I was a kid.”

  When the barmaid came back with the drink, he put his other twenty on the bar, watched her take it.

  “Cheers,” Lucinda said, and they clinked glasses. She leaned forward until their shoulders brushed, didn’t pull back.

  The bourbon went down warm, lit up his stomach, Burke remembering then he hadn’t eaten since lunch.

  “What do you play?” she said.

  “Little of everything. You?”

  “Me? I guess I’m more of a watcher.”

  He gave her the smile. “You’re all about the ambience, huh?”

  “That’s me.”

  She took a pull from the cigarette, set it in the ashtray beside his. Up close, she looked younger. A hard twenty-five, maybe. Too much eye makeup, trying to cover up the first traces of crow’s-feet.

  “Can I ask you something, Frank?”

  “Sure.” Knowing what was coming.

  “Are you a cop? Nothing against them. I just want to know.”

  “Do I look like a cop?”

  “Honestly? A little.”

  “I used to be. Detroit Metro.”

  “I knew it. I can always tell.”

  “Used to be.”

  “When was that?”

  “That I left? Five years. Almost six.”

  “You retired?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You look too young for that.”

  “I’m older than you think.”

  She touched his arm. “You can tell me to mind my own business. I won’t mind.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “What do you do now?”

  “Private.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Security work,” he said. “Insurance fraud, employee theft, that sort of thing.”

  “For the casinos?”

  “Sometimes. I’m a subcontractor, put it that way. Businesses, individuals. Kind of a troubleshooter, I guess. Pretty boring work. Mostly.”

  “Mostly?” She smiled. Her knee touched his. “You carry a gun?”

  “Only when I have to. Most times, a gun gets you into a lot more trouble than it can get you out of.”

  “How about now?”

  He shook his head. “I have a concealed carry permit, but you can’t bring them into the casinos anyway.”

  She clinked the ice in her glass, traced the rim with an index finger.

  “So let me ask you, Frank.” She moved in closer. “You through throwing your money away for the night?” She sucked the fingertip.

  “Maybe.”

  “Looking to party?”

  “Could be.” He sipped his drink, gave her the smile again.

  “You in this hotel?” she said.

  “No. The Hilton. Up the street.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Grosse Pointe,” he lied. “Out near the lake.”

  “Pretty fancy for an ex-cop.”

  “I do all right.”

  She slid from the stool, balancing on high heels, got her purse from the bar. “Well, what do you say, Frankie?”

  He finished his drink. “I say let’s go.”

  * * *

  He got his overcoat from the checkroom, and they stood outside under the neon while the valet brought the Impala around. Burke tipped him the five. Now he was down to just singles.

  The rain had stopped, but the streets were slick, and there was thunder somewhere far off. He lit another cigarette in the car, cracked the window to blow out smoke. He felt pleasantly light-headed.

  “Nice car,” she said. “It looks new.”

  “It is.” They drove on.

  “You sure this is the way to the Hilton?” she said.

  “Yeah, up Lafayette, then right on Brush. You’ve been there, right?”

  “I don’t remember going this way.”

  The blocks grew darker, the restaurants and bars thinning out. He made the turn onto Brush and then the left onto Gratiot, the Hilton in sight now, up at the brightly lit corner.

  Ahead on the right was a redbrick factory building, and an empty parking lot, a billboard there promising affordable condos to come.

  “I usually park in there,” he said. “It’s free.”

  She took a cell phone from her purse. “I have to make a call.”

  “Who to?”

  She punched in a number, raised the phone to her left ear.

  “Don’t be rude,” he said, and slapped it from her hand.

  The phone hit the dashboard, clattered off and landed at her feet.

  “What…” she started to say, and he jerked the wheel, pulled into the dark parking lot, drove into the shadows at the back, and hit the brakes hard. She rocked forward against the shoulder harness. He killed the headlights, turned the engine off.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” she said.

  He knew there was more coming, didn’t want to hear it. He backhanded her in the face, and she pulled away, hit her head against the window. She raised a hand to protect herself, clawed at the door latch with the other. He grabbed her left wrist, squeezed hard, said, “Stop it.”

  She’d backed as far as she could against the door. He held her thin wrist tight in his hand, pushed his cigarette out through the crack in the window, unsnapped his seat belt. The faint glow of a streetlamp lit the ins
ide of the car.

  “You’re thinking about screaming,” he said. “But that would be a mistake. All it’ll get you is a broken arm.”

  “Let go of me.” Fear in her eyes for the first time.

  He squeezed tighter, felt her bones. “I might. Or not. That’s up to you. Give me that phone.”

  When she didn’t move, he twisted her arm, bent her forward. She gasped with pain. He held her there, her elbow locked. “Remember what I said.”

  She picked up the phone with her free hand. He let go of her wrist, took it. She straightened, jerked her arm away. His fingers left bright red marks on her skin.

  “Just sit your ass right there,” he said. He looked at the phone. “Who’d you call?”

  She rubbed her arm, back to the door. “A friend.”

  There were numbers on the display, but the call hadn’t gone through. He pressed the power button, watched the phone go dark, set it on the dash. “Purse.”

  “You’re still a cop, aren’t you?”

  He didn’t answer. Let her think what she wanted.

  Inside the purse was a wallet, a package of Kleenex, three keys on a chain, her cigarettes and a plastic lighter, four condoms in gold foil. He opened the wallet. Three bills inside, a hundred and two fifties.

  “You didn’t have such a bad night,” he said. He folded the money, put it in his overcoat pocket, got out her driver’s license. She was younger in the photo, straight hair parted in the middle, darker than it was now. Lou Ann Crumlin, with an address in Livonia.

  “You’re right,” he said. “Lucinda’s better. Now I know where you live, Lou Ann.”

  He went through the wallet. A single credit card and a picture of a boy, maybe five years old.

  “Yours?” he said.

  When she didn’t answer, he looked at her. There were tears in her eyes, mascara starting to streak. “Answer me, honey.”

  “Yes. He’s mine.”

  “How old?”

  “Six.”

  “Good for you. What’s his name?”

  She looked away, but he knew she wouldn’t try to escape. They’d passed that point. He’d broken her.

  “Alexander,” she said.