by David Gordon
Yeah, watching the game, Jerry said. Hey, Paulie, he yelled. For Christ’s sake, how hard can it be? As he walked past, Eddie raised the gun and shot him twice between the shoulder blades, then leaned over and shot him again in the head. The muzzle flash lit the shadows and the woods around him absorbed the pop of the silencer. The air smelled damp. Maybe up here it had rained.
Eddie put the gun back in his side pocket and headed into the house, latching the front door quietly behind him. It was a small old house, mostly dark, with light and noise coming from the den in back where the game was on. But he heard movement in the kitchen and ducked in there first. Fat Dominic was at the counter, making himself a sandwich from a platter of cold cuts and fresh rolls and rye bread. Hey, Eddie, he said. You hungry?
No thanks, Dom. I just ate a rib eye but I could use a beer if you don’t mind.
You got it. Dom headed to the fridge and bent over with a sigh to withdraw a beer. Eddie shot him several times through the liver, more or less, it was hard to tell on a body that big. Dominic fell into the fridge and Eddie leaned in and put the last round in his head. The game was on loud, but the crash of Dom’s bulk was loud too, so Eddie quickly pulled the Magnum and headed for the den. Little Richie appeared in the door. Eddie? He put a hand up, instinctively, to fend off the huge barrel, and the blast tore most of his fingers away before exploding his head like an egg. The sound was shattering and Eddie’s ears rang as he rushed on through the door. Uncle Richie was in the recliner. Renard and the other Armani dude were on the couch. Eddie shot Renard first, in the gut. He looked sad and genuinely surprised, as if he’d thought they were pals. By then Armani Two had his gun out from his ankle holster, but he shot too quickly and the bullet went wide, punching a hole in the paneling. Eddie shot him through the heart. Then he turned the gun on Richie, who hadn’t moved. His hands were on the arms of the chair. One held a beer, the other the remote. He muted the game.
Just like I always told them, he said, looking over the corpses. Most ruthless fucker in the room.
Eddie sighed. Sorry about this, Richie. It didn’t seem right, about the girl. You know how it is.
Richie nodded. Sure. I understand, Eddie. Do what you got to do. He waved the remote. The whole world’s shit anyway. He sat back in the recliner and shut his eyes, as if for a shave, and Eddie shot him in the head. With the gun barrel, he pressed the remote, turning off the TV, then checked the other rooms. Everything was quiet. No sirens or cars approaching. He left, shutting the door and killing the lights behind him and wiping down the knob. He pulled out carefully, avoiding the bodies, and relocked the gates. He drove a ways, then pulled off on a small bridge and wiped down both guns before tossing them in the murky water and heading onto the Turnpike. He took an exit into a nameless industrial patch, parking in a crowded lot behind a strip club. He grabbed his suitcase, leaving his keys in the door, and used the pay phone in the clam house across the way to call a cab to the airport, where he got on the night flight to Paris.
Eddie lit another smoke. The afternoon was edging into evening, with the shadows leaning lower and the tourists mostly gone. The little wind picked a few leaves, then let them drop on the ground. Eddie stood and put a twenty-euro note on the table. “Jeez, I talked your ear off,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Guess I really got tired of not speaking English. This is on me.”
I protested feebly, but he wouldn’t hear of it. “No, forget about it. Anyway, I leave for Rome tomorrow so I’ve got to get rid of this money.”
I reminded him that both countries now used Euros. He laughed. “Oh yeah, I forgot. At least in Italy I’ll be able to understand a menu, maybe.” He waved his Marlboro at the park. “But Paris sure is fucking beautiful.”
I agreed. It sure was. He coughed wetly and pulled a hankie from a back pocket. “Anyway, have fun. And stick with the not smoking. These fucking things are going to kill me.”
“Right.” I stood to shake his hand. “Bon voyage.”
I sat back down and watched him amble off, wondering if anything he’d said was true. Was he just another random bullshitter of the sort one met in bars and cafés worldwide? I didn’t even know his last name. I sipped the melted ice left in my soda glass. He was not lying about Paris at least; it was indeed fucking beautiful, impossibly so. Like a vast and perfect work of art—a coral bed or a cathedral—to which countless generations had added their small bones. Then I noticed that he’d left his sketchbook behind. I flipped through. It was nearly full, with dozens of sketches, some quite detailed, in charcoal and pastel and pencil, of Paris’s buildings, trees, people, and bridges in different seasons and lights. They were, without a doubt, the worst drawings I’d ever seen in my life.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank my editor Ed Park for asking if I had a “cache” of stories he could see and making this collection a reality. I am immensely grateful to him and to everyone at Little A. Thanks especially to Lynn Buckley for another amazing cover. I also continue to have to the world’s best agent, Doug Stewart. I am deeply grateful to him and everyone at Sterling Lord Literistic, especially Madeleine Clark. Several of these stories appeared elsewhere, and I am very thankful for all the support my work has received. Most particularly, I wish to thank Lorin Stein at Paris Review, who plucked my odd little tale from the heap and made a teenage dream come true, and Nicole Rudick for helping me get it right. Thanks also to the folks at Fence, and as always to Rivka Galchen, who continues to be a much better friend and comrade than I deserve. Most of all I want to thank my family, whose love and faith have always been there, and the many friends who have carried me this far.
Photo © Michael Sharkey
DAVID GORDON was born in New York City. He attended Sarah Lawrence College and holds an MA in English and comparative literature and an MFA in writing, both from Columbia University. His first novel, The Serialist, won the VCU Cabell First Novelist Award and was a finalist for an Edgar Award. His second novel, Mystery Girl, was picked as one of The New Yorker’s best books of the year. His work has appeared in the Paris Review, the New York Times Magazine, and other publications. He has worked in film, fashion, publishing, and pornography.
