Shotgun Opera

by Victor Gischler

  “You said family has to stick together.”

  Nikki shook her head. “That not what I meant. I didn’t—”

  “What was all that you said about being sisters? Who’s going to look out for Meredith? You said it. We’re sisters. What if she needs help?”

  Nikki opened her mouth, shut it again, shook her head. Was that a little smug smile on Baby Sister’s face?

  Goddamn little girl.

  * * *

  Jack Sprat followed the Bentley west on I-10 to New Orleans. He kept well back, always just on the edge of losing her. Ortega had told him the first kill team had bought the farm, and he was damned if he and the missus would go in until he got some more information. The woman had killed six street-tough men. One tough Sheila. At least the men were assumed killed. Nobody had seen any sign of them. Who was this lady?

  Louis Ortega had admitted he didn’t know, but considering the source of the contract, it should be assumed the woman was dangerous.

  No shit, thought Goldberg.

  Even as Sprat followed Nikki, Mavis cased the house, finding out about alarms, trying to get a read on who else might be in there. When they went in, they were going to do it smart.

  Sprat had always been careful. As a kid he’d been a runt. Picked on. Pushed around. He had to be smart. He used his brains because he had no brawn. He’d done a stretch for armed robbery, and brains had saved his hide in the clink. He was good at heights and climbing in through little windows. At five-foot-five he was still a short guy, but he was also a tight wad of sinewy muscle. His nose was flat from too many jailhouse fights. Knuckles swollen and scarred. His shaved head was hard as granite. But each fight had taught him something, how to move, when to duck, when to strike. And he could put a knife between your eyes from fifty paces.

  No amount of muscle was better than his brain. He’s seen a lot of strong, tough guys go down for being stupid. Sprat was too smart to underestimate Nikki Enders. He knew strong, tough guys who’d underestimated women too. Men who’d underestimated Mavis had lost teeth.

  Such a good old gal, Mavis. Maybe he’d take the money from this job and take her on a proper holiday.

  26

  The Cadillac needed two more tanks of gas before Oklahoma City finally swelled into view on the horizon. Mike Foley pulled into a convenience store, used the bathroom, and bought a bottle of orange Gatorade. He changed the tape and gauze under his eye patch. He looked up Louis Ortega in the phone book, scribbled down the address, but had to go to another convenience store to purchase a map of the city.

  Mike realized he didn’t look right. Jeans, hiking boots, checkered short-sleeved shirt. Standard Okie ranch wear. When he’d been a hired gun back in the day, the right image was nearly as important as a clean pistol.

  He took the first exit once he hit downtown, zigzagged the streets until he spotted a men’s clothing store. He parked, went inside.

  All the other customers were black. The first suits he saw hanging on the rack were yellow, blue, red, and purple. But it didn’t take long to find what he wanted, a black suit. He found a white shirt and black wing tips in his size. Black socks. He picked out two ties. One solid black. The other black and red paisley. He took them up to the counter, told the salesclerk, “I want to wear these out.”

  “Got to pay for ’em first.”

  “Okay.”

  The clerk rang up the clothing, and Mike paid with his American Express.

  “Changing room in back,” the clerk said.

  Mike changed into the suit. It was a bit loose but not bad. The pant legs were short too, but not enough to worry about. He put on the paisley tie. He went back out to the clerk and asked how he looked.

  “Like an undertaker,” the clerk said.

  Perfect.

  On the way out he saw a mannequin wearing a black pork pie hat with a yellow feather in the band. He took it from the mannequin’s head and plucked out the yellow feather. He returned to the counter and paid for it. It fit snugly on his head.

  Back on the road, he headed for Ortega’s neighborhood. He felt good in the suit. He was starting to remember who he’d been.

  Louis Ortega’s house was in an expensive development on the south side of the city, a golf course, lake, trees, Land Rovers and Audis and other expensive cars in the driveways.

  He found Ortega’s house, parked across the street, and watched. He ate a bag of pistachio nuts he’d bought at the second convenience store.

  Ortega’s home was a sprawling two-story affair with a tile roof. Stucco wall with a gate of twisted iron bars. The whole thing was meant to resemble a Spanish villa. Black Mercedes SUV in the driveway.

  Mike crunched pistachios, tried to estimate what sort of man Ortega was. He’d sent Enrique Mars to kill Andrew Foley. Mike thought about Mars. When Mike had been young and fresh, a thug like Mars would not have given him much trouble. If that’s the sort of muscle Ortega had on his roster, then Mike judged Ortega to be a regional player at best.

  But Ortega had also sent Meredith Cornwall-Jenkins. She was tougher, a smoother operator who somehow had access to an army helicopter. Government connections. That put her in a whole different league than Mars. It didn’t fit with Mike’s appraisal of Ortega.

  In the old days, in his old neighborhood, he could have called some people, asked some questions, gotten the skinny, called in favors. Now he was in a strange town with no friends. Mike didn’t really know shit about Ortega and couldn’t think of a way to find out.

  And he was out of pistachio nuts.

  He got out of the Caddy, opened the trunk. He’d decided on the direct approach and needed to take along the right playthings. He stuck a revolver in his waistband, buttoned his jacket over it.

  He went to the front gate, rang the buzzer next to the intercom.

  “Yes?” A woman’s voice, slight Spanish accent.

  “I want to speak to Louis Ortega.”

  “This is his residence,” the voice said. “Appointments should call his business office.”

  “Tell him I have a message from Enrique Mars.”

  A long silence. Mike figured he’d struck out and turned back toward the Caddy. Then he heard a high-pitched buzz. The gate clicked open. He pushed through, walked up the driveway to the front door. A woman let him in, gray maid’s uniform. She was young, black hair in a tight ponytail. She led him through an elegant living room, earth tones and mirrors, down a long hall where a big guy in a green jogging suit waited. He had bodyguard written all over him, stoic expression, shoulders you could park a Jeep on. The bulge in his jogging suit under his left arm said gun. Only the leather sandals seemed out of place. To Mike, it was hard to appear intimidating when people could see your toes.

  The maid left and the big guy started frisking Mike under the arms.

  “It’s in my waistband,” Mike said.

  The bodyguard reached under Mike’s jacket and took the revolver, stuck it in his own waistband while he finished the frisk.

  “Okay,” the bodyguard said. “This way.”

  He opened the door. Mike was surprised. He’d expected an office or den on the other side. He was half right. Bookshelves lined one wall. A desk. Large-screen TV. A bar. On the right, the room opened up to the outdoors. Big French doors flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, a kidney-shaped swimming pool. Well-manicured landscaping.

  They circled the pool to a gazebo on the other side. A well-dressed man sat at a table, a folded newspaper in his lap. A pitcher of something on the table next to a glass. Margaritas. A thick cigar smoldering in an ashtray.

  “I am Louis Ortega.” He was smartly dressed, tan slacks, Italian loafers, a gold pinky ring with a ruby the size of a marble. A blue silk shirt open to the chest. A hundred-dollar haircut. “Who are you?”

  The bodyguard loomed directly behind Mike. Good. Stay right there. Mike pictured the sandals, his pistol stuck in the bodyguard’s waistband. “I’m Mike Foley.”

  It took a second, but then the name Foley registered in Ortega’s eyes. “You are the father?”

&nb
sp; “The uncle.”

  Ortega nodded. “You said you had a message from Enrique Mars.”

  “The message is that he’s dead and will see you in hell.”

  Ortega refused to be rattled. “Uh-huh. Yes, very colorful. What is it you want, Mr. Foley?”

  “I need you to answer some questions.”

  “And what if I’m not in the mood to answer your questions?”

  Mike said, “Then you’ll see your pal Enrique sooner than planned.”

  A bemused smile from Ortega. “You are in no position to make threats, old-timer. My man Pedro behind you can bench-press a Buick.”

  “Maybe,” Mike said. “But he wears sandals.”

  Mike lifted his leg and brought the heel of his new wing tip down hard with everything he had. He felt the bodyguard’s little toe pop and flatten like a mashed ketchup packet. The big bruiser sucked air, his eyes going wide. There was a fraction of a second when all three men froze. Then the big guy screamed, tumbled down, grabbing for his foot.

  As the bodyguard dropped, Mike snatched his pistol from the bruiser’s waistband. He thumbed the hammer back, spun toward Ortega.

  But Ortega had overturned the table, scattered coffee cups. He was running back toward his house. Mike tried to follow, but something caught his ankle. Mike looked down, saw the bloody splotch where the toe had exploded. He also saw the bodyguard up on one knee, pawing at Mike’s leg. Mike aimed the revolver, squeezed the trigger. The shot caught the bodyguard in the gut and he sprawled facedown.

  Mike tried to run after Ortega, but his knees wouldn’t let him. He fired the revolver twice, trying to catch Ortega in the leg, but both shots went wide. Ortega was already around the pool. Mike limped after him.

  He made it back through the French doors, saw Ortega at his desk, reaching for something in the top drawer. Mike thumbed the hammer back again. “Hold it!”

  Ortega didn’t hold it. His hand came out of the desk drawer clutching a nickel-plated snub-nose revolver.

  Mike fired, splinters flying up from the desktop an inch from Ortega.

  Ortega dropped the revolver on top of the desk, put his hand up. “Okay, okay. Take it easy.”

  Ortega had taken it as a warning shot, but Mike knew better. He’d been aiming for Ortega’s chest. The shot had gone wide again. It was the eye patch, Mike realized. It was throwing off his aim. He’d gotten lucky. Now he could ask Ortega about Cornwall-Jenkins and Enrique Mars and the hit on his nephew.

  “Why was Andrew Foley marked for a hit?”

  “I don’t know,” Ortega said. “I got the call and put my man on it.”

  “Who gave you the order?”

  “A woman named Meredith Cornwall.”

  Mike nodded. Meredith pulled Ortega’s strings, not the other way around. That explained why Meredith and Mars seemed to be in different leagues. Mike asked, “What about her sister?”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Ortega said.

  “Think harder.”

  “I’m telling you,” Ortega said. “I’m a middle man. I never ask why. Someone says take the guy out, and that’s it. I haven’t heard from either Mars or Cornwall.”

  “They’re both dead.”

  “How?”

  “Me.”

  Ortega blinked, bewilderment on his face. “Who are you?”

  Mike opened his mouth to explain just exactly who he was and why he shouldn’t be fucked with, when the floor-to-ceiling glass window exploded behind him, glass raining, gunshots ripping through Ortega’s office.

  Mike threw himself on the carpet, looked up at the bruiser stumbling through the broken window. The bodyguard held his gut with one hand. In his other trembling hand he held a big automatic and fired wildly.

  Mike compensated for his bad eye, squeezed the trigger. The slug punched a bloody hole in the bodyguard’s forehead. Mike didn’t wait for the body to hit the floor. He was already turning back to Ortega, knew he’d be going for the snub-nose on the desk.

  Ortega fired, ripping carpet two inches from Mike’s head.

  Still flat on the floor, Mike aimed, held his breath, and fired. Blood sprayed from Ortega’s shoulder; he flew back, his pistol spinning away. He fell behind the desk.

  Silence and cordite and the copper smell of blood hung in the air. Mike grunted, stood. He circled the desk slowly, saw Ortega on his back. His breathing came quick and shallow. Blood leaked from his shoulder at an alarming rate, and Mike figured maybe he’d hit an artery.

  “H-help me.” Ortega’s voice was weak.

  “Tell me about Meredith Cornwall. Who does she work for?”

  Ortega’s eyes had gone glassy. “Water. G-get me some w-water, will you?” But then his eyes rolled up and that was it.

  Mike shook his head. “Hell.”

  He walked back through the house and found the front door standing open. He guessed maybe the maid had fled when she heard the shots. The police might be on the way. No time to hang around. He climbed back into the Caddy, cranked it, and drove.

  He still had no idea where he was going.

  27

  Sitting halfway up the ridge, Andrew Foley picked at the strings of his mandolin and watched the scene in the valley unfold. The two Indians had backed a thirty-year-old pickup truck next to the remains of his uncle’s cabin. The truck was nearly all rust, but might have been blue once upon a time. Even at this distance, the faces of the two Indians were striking. Dour and brown-red, like they’d been carved from mahogany. They both wore jeans and T-shirts, the woman’s hair in braids, the man wearing a straw hat. They stoically loaded the blanket-wrapped body of their son into the bed of the truck.

  Andrew shifted his gaze down the slope. Linda was hiking up toward him. Her house was directly behind him up the slope.

  He strummed an intro to “As Tears Go By,” segued into a plucking rhythm. The bluegrass version of the Mick Jagger song stopped just short of corny. He began singing the melancholy lyrics, adding a down-home, Appalachian sadness to his voice. The wind blustered and flung the notes into the wide sky.

  Andrew remembered Keone’s impish grin and infectious laughter, which he’d thought so annoying at first. Andrew’s voice cracked a little. He finished the last few notes just as Linda reached his spot. She sat on a smaller rock next to Andrew’s perch on the big boulder.

  Andrew waited for her to say something, but she didn’t. He almost started another song when she finally spoke.

  “I tried to tell them, you know? But it sounded so stupid.” She wiped a tear from her eye, her hands trembling. “And they wouldn’t say anything. They just looked at me and wouldn’t say a damn thing. Can you believe that shit?” She wiped her nose with her hand and wiped her hand on her pants. “So I just kept talking and they still wouldn’t talk and then I’m babbling about a helicopter and God knows what.”

  Andrew held his breath. Linda was about to lose it.

  “And I just ran out of things to say. I looked at them and they looked at me and finally the woman opened her mouth to ask where Mike had gone.” Linda sighed, shook her head. She was emotionally drained. “I didn’t know what to tell her. I said Mike had gone to take care of things. I didn’t even know what I meant by that, but the woman nodded and they loaded the body and that was it.”

  She beat her fists against her knees. “Goddammit! I left Chicago because I thought it would be quiet and safe here. What the fuck? I mean, just, what the fuck!” She stood, brushed the dust off her butt. “I need a cigarette. I need a drink.” She climbed back toward her house at the top of the hill.