by Linda Sands
“What?”
“If it’s still there.” She’d begun clearing the plates and cups, walking away as she said, “My Grandfather’s cabin.”
Deluca wished he’d been paying more attention instead of trying to sneak a peek down her blouse. Gina still had the best tits. He opened another Dauphin County Real Estate register, ran his finger down the page of transactions and paused at Chamblee Acres. Gina was trying to protect Berger. That was her way, such a motherly sort, sweet in the hooker-with-a-heart way, but entirely unrealistic in the real world. What the fuck was she thinking?
“Find what you’re looking for?” the clerk asked, waddling over.
“Yes.” Deluca smoothed the page he’d been about to tear out. “You’re such a sweetheart for letting me use your desk.”
She blushed, waved him off.
“No really, I mean it.” Deluca gave her the full wattage of his smile. “I know you’re not supposed to, but could I have a copy of this?’ The clerk’s smile faded. She pursed her lips. Deluca pushed. “I won’t tell a soul.” He crossed two fingers over his heart then held them up, whatever that meant. He said, “Trust me.”
Jeremy added two more plates to the squat rack and positioned himself under the bar. It was his last set of the pyramid, his quads were on fire. When the phone went off in his bag he almost ignored it, then remembered Deluca’s face that afternoon. Something told him this might be important. He took a swig of water, shook out his legs and walked to the lobby.
“I need to use your office.”
The neckless triangle behind the front desk shrugged and pointed to a closed door, “No problem.”
Jeremy closed the door behind him, silencing the grunts and groans of the power lifters. He punched in Deluca’s number and wasn’t surprised when he picked up on the first ring.
“Shit!” Gina slammed on the brakes then remembered too late—you’re supposed to pump them.
Steering was impossible. The car had become a sliver of soap on its way to the drain.
“Move!” she screamed.
But the three deer frozen on the middle line just looked at her, an obstacle of muscle, bone and hair. She pulled hard to the left, felt the tires slide off the road, the steering wheel jerking under her grip. The station wagon slammed sideways into a fifty-year-old oak and came to a stop, facing the way from which they’d come. On the road bits of glass and chrome littered the blacktop.
“What the fuck!” Berger yelled from the back seat. “Goddamit, Gina! Oh, my fucking leg!”
Through the cracked windshield and the light of the one skewed headlamp, Gina saw them. The doe and her two fawns stepped lightly over a hubcap and bounded off into the woods, white tails raised like fat middle fingers.
“Shut up, Hi.”
Gina dabbed at her bloody lip and released the taut seatbelt. She rubbed where the strap had cut into her shoulder and bruised her breast. “Just shut the fuck up.”
She noticed how easily her door opened, thought that from this side you couldn’t tell anything was wrong, except she might have parked too close to that tree.
Berger dragged himself out of the back seat, his bandaged leg held before him like a package of meat. He hobbled three steps and sat down on a limestone boulder. “Now what?’
Gina looked at him on the rock, rubbing his leg and scowling at her. She sighed, reached inside the busted window for the keys and her purse, hesitated a moment, then felt around the backseat for the bottle of JD.
“Now, we walk.”
White Shoes had just finished with the transmitters in the bedroom and was cleaning up when his cell phone rang.
“Yeah?”
Gallo said, “I need you to go to Dauphin County. I just got word that Berger and Gina are running. You know that old place by the gorge? JR should remember, Big Pants used to take him fishing there. Convince Berger to come back, you understand? And White Shoes? No one gets hurt.”
“Got it, Boss. Don’t worry. I’m on it.” Slipping the phone in his pocket, White Shoes grabbed his toolbox and called to JR, “Finish up. We’re out of here.”
In the dining room, JR wasn’t ready. He sat at the table with the red-haired kid, his gun useless at his side.
“What the fuck, JR? C’mon. We have to go.”
“Wait, wait.” JR wiped his eyes, swallowed a chuckle. “The kid’s funny, White Shoes.” JR poked Reilly with the gun. “Tell him the one about the Italian and the firing squad.”
White Shoes said, “I don’t wanna hear no jokes. Get your shit, JR. We’re leaving.”
“What about—?” JR motioned in Reilly’s direction.
“What?”
“You know.” JR’s head bobbed again.
White Shoes looked at the glassy-eyed kid, imagined him calling someone as soon as they left. “Yeah, you’re right. C’mon kid, we’re going for a drive.”
Reilly tore open the plastic baggie, ran his finger around and rubbed the last of the coke over his gums. “Sure. Why not?”
On the way to the van, Reilly told White Shoes the joke about the Italian and the firing squad. White Shoes agreed. The kid was funny. He’d give him that much.
The harder Ray tried to clear his mind to go to sleep, the more he was bombarded with stuff he couldn’t change. He had no idea when he’d find out about his case. He could do nothing from here and a tiny part of him wished he’d never even tried to re-open the whole mess. He hated to admit he was afraid of failure. Even more, he was afraid of success.
What if they did manage to convince the judge? Would there be a full-blown jury trial? Would all that stuff come up again? And what if by some miracle, some chance—no, some justice—he did gain his freedom? What would he do? No family, no job, no place to go.
In prison, he was told when to sleep, when to eat and when to work. There were too many choices in the free world, and Ray was afraid he’d make the wrong one, again. He rolled over onto his back, closed his eyes and saw his former life, what he’d lost. Tara.
He whispered to the chipped wall, “Tara, I’m sorry,” and “I’ll find her.” His voice echoed back, sounding hollow and false. Lost in a canyon of doubt.
In Sailor’s empty apartment, the answering machine went through its outgoing message and beep.
“Reilly? Are you there? I need you to pick up. Listen, if you get this message, we need you to delay the meeting with the Judge. We’re driving to Dauphin County to bring back Berger. Jeremy says Gina’s family has a camp at Clark’s Creek. We think that’s where they’re headed. I’ll try your cell again, and—”
There was a crackling sound, a few fragments of words, then just static.
Paris fingered the wrapped chocolates in the dish as she waited for the call to ring through.
“Hello?”
“She’s in town.”
“What?” Deluca pushed the girl off his lap.
“Maria’s in Philly. She just checked into the Rittenhouse.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not.”
“What do you want?”
“I think you know.”
“Fuck. I’m in the middle of something.”
“So finish and get over here. I’ll be in the lobby bar, by the garden.”
“Fine.” He snapped the phone shut with his chin and then dragged the girl back into his lap, face first.
CHAPTER 21
Well, Hello There
MARIA CHETTA fell asleep in the bathtub. It wasn’t the first time. She dreamed: beach, garden, rose petals, a big white bed, gauzy curtains. Then it changed—a loud noise, a swirl of colors, a horrible car crash; five, maybe six cars. She was driving a truck, a big one. She looked down on a field of debris, huge tires rolling forward, crushing steel and smashing windshields, hubcaps, bumpers and twisted doors with their locks still depressed. There wasn’t any blood just a shoeless leg in khakis on her left, half a man on her right. The man with one cheek pressed to the ground like he was listening for earthworms, or appr
oaching horses. Long gray hair flowed over his collar, the wind tickling it over a cheek that couldn’t feel on an armless man who couldn’t brush it away.
Maria woke with a start, splashing bath water over the side of the tub, unsure for a moment where she was. The water had cooled, a chill from the dream seeped into the lavender bath. She opened the drain and felt the water swirl past her, gurgling and chugging down the hotel pipes. By the time she’d wrapped herself in the white terry robe and padded over to the mini bar, the dream was just a bad taste in the back of her throat, easily disguised by the Glenlivet she poured over ice and drank in three swallows.
She stood by the window overlooking the Square, imagining James King saying, “You’re just a dumb bitch who won’t amount to nothing. I want you out of here, you and your fat Mama, always crying all the time. You got three days, hear me? And I don’t want to see you around the store no more, either.”
King was serious this time. He could even be in love with this one. Maria had to do something. She’d given up too much of herself to lose now, so she asked Lou for the gun. And called Chancy. No one had figured it out. Except Deluca. He was smart even back then. Determined.
Maria thought she’d done them a favor; the way she saw it, she’d done the whole damn city a favor, ridding them of a horrible man determined to ruin the lives of their children with drugs, bring their neighborhoods down, sap the strength of their community. But Deluca and the others, they missed the money.
Maria knew Banning was right. Twenty-four years is a long time to keep a secret. But that was just one of the reasons she was here.
Paris watched the waiter bend over the low table and place her martini precisely in the center of the napkin. She slipped him a few bills. “Thank you.”
“Will there be anything else, Miss Kendrick?”
Paris ran her eyes over the young blond. “Maybe later. I have your number.” She re-crossed her long legs, checked her watch and wondered how many sets of Kegels she could get through before her guest arrived.
Maria sipped her second scotch while perched on the window seat. She watched a fresh-faced brunette on the Square below. The girl held a red sign of protest or cheer, something about RENT or PETA. Maria wasn’t sure. She was trying to read the small print when someone knocked.
“It’s open.” Maria didn’t bother to turn around, absorbed in the protester’s odd actions. She heard the door open and close. On the sidewalk below, the girl had wheeled a covered cage out of the shadows into the light of the street lamp. She whipped the red cover away to reveal a naked man squeezed into the tiny space.
Still staring, Maria said, “Everything’s on the table, Len. I want to be there when you confront him.”
People on the street gathered around the girl and the caged man.
“I want to see his face. I want him to know it was me who did this to him.”
Someone handed the girl a megaphone, Maria could hear a few words, “illegal, unfair, inhumane.”
“But more than that, I want—”
Maria turned around and saw that it wasn’t Len Banning and his associate she’d been talking to, it wasn’t him bent over the loaded gun in the baggie and the piles of tapes. She barely spoke the word, “over.”
Deluca smiled. “Hello, Maria.”
Standing behind him, Paris reached into her jacket pocket. She fiddled with something then stepped back as Maria stormed across the room. “What the hell are you doing here?”
White Shoes had heard enough. No matter what the kid said, JR had done, seen or heard something better. “All right. Enough. Christ, the two of you are like my Aunt Rose and Uncle Vinnie. What the fuck are you doing back there, anyway?”
JR and Reilly had been messing around in the back of the van for the last half hour. The kid was funny, sure, but he couldn’t sit still for a goddamn minute, and it was driving White Shoes nuts. He figured he’d pick up a few beers on the next stop, maybe get the kid to mellow out. He hoped Howdy Doody didn’t have any more coke on him, and he really hoped he wasn’t joking when he said he could rig a pipe bomb.
The gas station had certainly seen better days. and the tinny music blaring from the blown speakers of the shithole bar next door assured White Shoes they’d left the city behind. Someone once said, Pennsylvania was Philadelphia and Pittsburgh, with Alabama in between. White Shoes slid down from the van seat, stretched and said to no one in particular, “Welcome to Alabama.”
He opened the rear doors of the van and let JR and Reilly out.
“Fill it up. I gotta use the can.”
JR looked at Reilly, motioned to the pump. Smiling, Reilly shrugged and sat down on the van’s rear bumper.
JR cursed under his breath, then went round to work the pump. He was standing there a few minutes later, nozzle in hand, when White Shoes came back.
“Where’s Howdy Doody?” he asked, looking around, fiddling with his fly.
“Back there.” JR jerked his thumb to the rear of the van.
White Shoes said, “Did you pay?”
“No.”
“What do you mean? You just been standing here all this time?”
“Hey, the fucking thing’s broke. I have to hold it like this, and if I push it all the way, it cuts off, it’s delicate.”
“It’s delicate? What the fuck? Give it to me. Now, go pay the guy. Ke-rist!”
JR shuffled off, shaking his head.
White Shoes grabbed the nozzle, squeezed. The pump cut off, and when he squeezed again, a spray of gasoline covered his hand and splattered his shoes.
JR laughed as he walked toward the store. “I told you,” he said.
The kid behind the counter had rigged the store’s security monitor to a game player and was in the middle of a battle with three tough looking Ninjas, thumbs pounding furiously on the controller.
He didn’t look up. “Whatcha got, Dude?”
“Twenty in gas, some chips and candy.”
The kid swapped out his Warrior for a Japanese fighting girl in a slinky red dress. He glanced at the food on the counter then back to his game. “Twenty-seven fifty. You need change?”
JR pulled some bills from his wallet and a few coins from his pocket, slapped the money on the counter. He spoke to the kid’s back. “Nah, I’m good.”
The boy’s fighting girl took on a giant panda. The kid jumped up, jerking his arms and legs as if the battle were real. He never saw JR swipe the six-pack and magazines on his way out. JR dumped his take into the van through the window. White Shoes rubbed furiously at a damp spot on his Bucs.
“You all right there, Shoes?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just get the kid and let’s go.”
JR walked to the back of the van. Reilly was gone. He checked inside. No kid. He closed the rear doors and looked toward the restrooms.
“Hey, White Shoes?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you say he was, uh, in the toilet?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
White Shoes threw down the paper towel and came around to the back of the van.
“He ain’t here.”
“I can see that. Where is he?”
JR shrugged. Across the gravel lot, someone had opened a window in the bar, and now it was even easier to hear Creedence singing about a bad moon on the rise.
“Are you shittin’ me? C’mon.”
The moment they opened the door they knew they were fucked.
It wasn’t the twinkling pink Christmas lights around the bar or even the rows of collectible Barbies neatly displayed on the back wall. It was the way the song ended abruptly when they stepped over the threshold. The way three bushy blond heads swiveled round from their places at the bar.
“Well, girls,” The bigger blonde said. “This must be our day.” She slid from the bar stool, heavy boots clomped on the wooden floor, and spoke around the cigarette in her mouth, swaying a bit.
She pointed at White Shoes. “One,” then to JR, “two,” then reached between
her pals and produced Reilly, like a rabbit from a magician’s hat. “Three.”
The second blond popped up, tittering. “And look, there’s three of us. “One. Two—”
The third blond grabbed her by the hair, shoved her. “No shit, Shirley. Sit down.”
“What did you do that for, huh? And why’d you call me Shirley?”
“Have a drink.” The tough one said, shoving a glass in her direction.
The big blond approached the men and circled them with her hands on her hips like a farmer appraising his prize-winning bull. She licked her lips. “Good idea. Let’s all have a drink.”
JR started backing up, “Thanks ladies, but we really should be going.”
White Shoes put his hand on JR’s back. “We’d love a drink. Ain’t that right, buddy?” He pushed JR forward. “And then the three of us need to be hitting the road, ain’t that right?’ White Shoes stared at Reilly, who tipped his drink and saluted.
The big blonde stepped behind the bar and spoke to them over her shoulder. “Name’s Barbie. That’s Stacy.” The flaky chick on the nearest stool wiggled her fingers. “And Kenita.”
The tough broad jerked her head in their direction. “Ken.”
Barbie held two chilled shot glasses. “Vodka, boys?”
JR and White Shoes snapped the shots back, then set the glasses on the pastel pink bar.
JR looked around. “Nice place. It’s what you call…whimsical.” White Shoes rolled his eyes.
Stacy’s empty glass was refilled by Barbie, sugar-rimmed and full of chilled vodka. Stacy took a sip then dipped her finger into the sugar and licked it off. She looked at JR. “Know which one’s my favorite?”
He shook his head slowly, unsure what she meant but hoping it had something to do with that sugar-tipped finger. She slid from the barstool and sashayed across the room in a sexy dance to the music in her head. Stacy looked like a life-sized version of the dolls on the wall. She selected a Barbie on the lowest shelf then hid it behind her back and returned to the bar.
“Wanna see?”
JR swallowed. Hell yeah.
“It’s Malibu Barbie.” She held the doll out to JR. “Feel her hair.” He petted the fake hair.
