The Buffalo Job

by Mike Knowles

  Thomas Delgado did well for himself. The house had old bones but they didn’t show under the massive facelift performed on the interior. The floors were done in wide, dark hardwood and the ceilings all had crown moldings. When we stepped into the living room and onto the plush, expensive area rug, I had a moment of guilt about leaving my shoes on. Sitting on the couch was the man I had seen on the internet; only this man wasn’t as handsome as the guy on the website. The cheekbone on the right side of Thomas Delgado’s face looked like it had been caved in with something heavy and hard. I guessed the damage had been done by the butt of the revolver in Carl’s hand. Thomas’ head slowly swivelled to take the new intruders in. The vacant expression on his battered face made it impossible to read his thoughts.

  “Sit down,” Carl said.

  I went for a chair, but Carl turned the revolver on me.

  “Next to Tom on the sofa, please.”

  “Cozier that way,” Miles said.

  We walked across the area rug towards the couch. The coffee table that had, judging by the impressions in the rug, been centred in front of the couch had been roughly shoved aside. The table was sitting diagonally on the edge of the rug with one decorative wooden leg on the hardwood floor. On the table were two cell phones. One was in the far corner — close enough for Thomas to reach out and touch from his seat. The other phone at the far end of the table was Carl’s, not the burner I had given him, but something sleeker and cooler. I remembered how easily he had handed over his phone in the diner. Of course it was easy; he had been carrying a throwaway for just such an occasion. He had been a step ahead of all of us from the start and I cursed inwardly for misjudging the driver’s cunning. Miles took the centre spot on the sofa while I got the end. I eased onto the leather couch and heard the material groan as it ground against my damp shirt.

  “I’m curious,” Carl said. “How did you find your way here?”

  “We figured out that playing the fiddle wasn’t Tommy’s only talent.”

  “That so? And how did you do that?”

  “We found him because stealing is our line of work, not his. I’m guessing he’s better at playing the violin,” I said.

  “I’ve never heard him play, but I bet you are right, Wilson. Tom is not as smart, or as smooth, as he thinks he is, not by a long shot.”

  He kept using our names. Carl had no intention of keeping us alive. That fact simplified things. There was no point in worrying about getting killed if it was a forgone conclusion.

  “You here alone?” I asked.

  Carl smiled. “My new associates cut me loose when they learned that the violin was not the one I led them to believe we were getting.”

  I pointed at the spots on Carl’s shirt that looked like blood. “They cut you loose, or just cut you?”

  Carl looked at his shirt. “Other way around.”

  “So you have two sets of Albanians angry with you now,” Miles said.

  “Nothing a violin won’t fix, I’m sure.”

  “You lied to the Americans, probably killed one or two, and you killed Ilir. You’re putting a lot of stock in one old fiddle,” Miles said.

  “So I killed Ilir, Miles?” Carl said. He didn’t seem surprised.

  “Word on the street,” Miles said.

  “Yours or his?” Carl said gesturing at me with the gun.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Sure, Miles. Sure it does. When we get the violin, we could take it back across the border to Pyrros. Just you and me. We’d split the take fifty-fifty.”

  Miles nodded his head slowly. “Why so generous? You have the gun; I’m guessing you’re on your way to getting the violin. Why bring me in and split the profits?”

  “I do have the gun, and I will have the violin, but you have something I need.”

  Miles shrugged. “Sounds kinky, Carl.”

  “You have your mouth.”

  “Real kinky.”

  “You tell Pyrros the truth, the real word on the street, and you walk away with half.”

  “Except it won’t be the real word on the street,” Miles said.

  “The words don’t have to be real. The money will be real enough.”

  Carl’s cleverness kept surprising me. It had taken him less than three minutes to start manipulating Miles.

  “The knife in your back will be real, too, Miles,” I said.

  “The man has a point. You did try to kill us.”

  Carl snorted. “The man did more than try to kill Ilir.”

  “Why did you turn on us, Carl?” I asked.

  “Why did you kill Ilir, Wilson?”

  We both looked at Miles. Miles looked at Carl. “He asked first.”

  Carl narrowed his eyes at me. I could tell he wanted to kill me right then, but if he did, he would never be able to depend on Miles to cover for him. He needed Miles to sign on before he killed me.

  “My kid,” he said. “I wasn’t lying when I said he was sick. He has a rare illness. It’s genetic. Only one in every two hundred fifty thousand gets it. Rare illnesses don’t get the same kind of research funding as common ones do. There’s a doctor in Europe, but the fees — shit, they call us thieves. Anyway, I needed more than a third of the take for the next round of treatments, but I can make it work with a half.” Carl nodded at me. “His turn.”

  “Miles knows why,” I said.

  “Care to show your cards to the rest of the table?” Carl said.

  “It’s not important anymore. The violin is the only thing that matters to all of us now. I’m guessing Alison has it.” I leaned forward just enough to see past Miles to the violinist and fought back a grimace. “Judging from your face, Thomas, you fought giving her up, but you probably gave in about the time he caved in half of your face.”

  “Don’t talk to him,” Carl said.

  I thought about the time and distance. Carl had been in the house long enough to get in, force answers out of Thomas, and get the drop on us. I gave Thomas’ face another look and figured an hour was a conservative estimate. At this time of day, traffic was non-existent. An hour was more than enough time for someone to drive from the mansion to the violinist’s house. It was more than enough time for someone to drive here and back. So why wasn’t the widow beside Thomas? I thought about what the call must have sounded like. Had Thomas pleaded? Had he tried to be noble? No matter what he said, she must have heard the pain in his voice. A woman in love would have heard it, no matter what words he chose. She would have heard it and rushed to save him. Time and distance made a convincing case — something wasn’t right. The widow should have been here by now.

  “What did she say when you talked to her, Thomas?”

  Carl looked at me, and then he looked at Thomas. Thomas didn’t answer.

  I took a harder look at the battered violinist. “Can he talk?”

  Carl didn’t answer; neither did Thomas.

  “Can he?” Miles echoed.

  Carl didn’t have to answer my questions, but he wanted Miles on board and that meant he couldn’t keep him in the dark.

  “He didn’t give her up. He won’t call her,” Carl said. “He won’t even pick up the phone. After a while, he stopped talking altogether. But that ain’t going to last.”

  “You going to do more than just mash up his face?”

  Carl looked at Thomas, but the man wouldn’t meet his eye. “Plenty more, Miles. Plenty.”

  I saw tears well in the corner of Thomas’ swollen eye, but his mouth stayed shut.

  “I don’t get it,” I said. I was speaking to Thomas, but he wasn’t looking at me.

  “Don’t talk to him,” Carl said. “In fact, just keep your mouth shut altogether.”

  I ignored Carl. “Why not pick up the phone? If you’re trying to protect her, you’re doing a shit job. If you die, she’s the only one left. You think C
arl won’t go break her face, too?”

  “That’s enough,” Carl said. He pointed the gun at me.

  I sat back against the cushion and raised my palms to Carl. “One more question,” I said.

  Carl kept the gun on me.

  “Thomas, what time is it?”

  No one spoke. The question was a complete non sequitur for everyone; even Thomas was surprised enough to break his thousand-yard stare and twist his head enough to view me with his good eye.

  Carl’s eyes widened and then he let out a laugh. “How much blood did you lose, Wilson? That’s the one question you need to know the answer to?”

  Miles turned his head and met Thomas’ eye. “Answer him.”

  Thomas broke his silence without any thought. “I dunno. Seven maybe.”

  “There,” Carl said. “Are you happy?”

  “You’re way off, Thomas.” I said. “Way off.”

  Thomas shrugged and went back to staring at the wall.

  “Alright. Shut the fuck up, Wilson,” Carl said.

  I nodded and kept my mouth shut. The time for questions was over. Thomas wasn’t a hard man; he was a professional violin player. The bones in the side of his face had been shattered. That kind of damage would have made any regular person spill their guts, but Thomas had taken it, and the threat of worse, without a word. Torture was a funny thing. People who grew up on a steady diet of Stallone movies thought the pain was what broke the person — it wasn’t. It was the idea that the pain could go on forever that broke a person. Thomas had more in store; Carl had spelled it out for him, but he still kept his mouth shut. The idea of the pain going on didn’t break him. I had thought that the pain going on might have been the point. I had asked about the time because if the violinist was bearing the pain for the minutes on the clock it bought the widow, it would have been all he could think about. But the question surprised Thomas. And when I told him that his guess wasn’t even close, he just shrugged it off. Time wasn’t a factor for him. He was holding out for a reason I couldn’t comprehend. Maybe it was love. I didn’t understand Thomas, but I understood Carl. The driver would keep beating the violinist until he got what he wanted. If he didn’t get what he was after, it would only be because the violinist’s heart finally decided to go silent too. We had all gone after Thomas because we knew the widow was safe as houses in her guarded mansion. The robbery and shootings had put her in the centre of a huge police and media investigation. There was no getting at her without Thomas’ help, at least not right away. And with two sets of Albanians on his tail, Carl had no time to wait. He would keep pushing the beaten man.

  Sitting on the couch in front of Carl was a bad spot to be in — one that was getting worse by the second. There were few moves left on the board and fewer that would get me off the sofa alive. I saw subtle weaknesses that I could exploit, but it would take time, and time was something I wasn’t in control of. Our fate was tied to the fiddler. If Thomas died, Carl would pull the trigger two more times and then he would run.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Carl had been pacing back and forth for at least a minute before he stopped and said, “I don’t get it.”

  We all said nothing.

  Carl lifted the gun and pointed it at me. “Tell me what is going on. Why do you care so much about if he knows what time it is?”

  Carl kept the gun aimed at my right eye. When I didn’t say anything, he turned it on Miles. Miles smiled coolly, but the smile faded the longer the gun was in his face. He began to look uncomfortable. He flashed me a look and then gave the gun more consideration. I saw him begin to bite his cheek. A second later he talked.

  “It’s code,” Miles said. “We didn’t know what we’d find when we came through the door, so we came up with something in the car on the way over that we could use to communicate if we had to. Time means, ‘It’s time.’”

  “Time for what?”

  “He wanted me to come at you while you were focused on him.”

  Carl brought the gun back towards my head. “You always have a plan, don’t you?”

  “He’s got a thing about being the smartest guy in the room,” Miles said. “It’s an annoying quality, really. It was cute when it was dangling Ilir out of the car, but now it’s my life he’s dangling. Sorry, Wilson, but you’re fading. We can all see it. You aren’t going to make it to the end of the race, but I am.”

  Miles got off the couch.

  “I’m on the wrong side of the room.”

  The wheelman had a choice to make. If he needed Miles like he said he did, he had to let him off the couch — partners didn’t point guns at each other. Carl watched Miles closely, but he didn’t move the gun away from me. Miles walked to Carl and turned to face the couch. Miles had made his own play. He wasn’t wrong about me fading. I was hot again and my heart was no longer beating strong. I had, at best, another couple of hours, and those were on-the-couch hours. If I got off the sofa, I figured my time would be cut in half.

  “I’m going to shoot you in the head,” Carl said. “Then we can really judge if you were the smartest guy in the room.”

  Carl thumbed the hammer and the cylinder clicked forward once. I waited for the gun to carry out my execution. I didn’t plead, or put my hands up — Carl and Miles were already taking everything. I wasn’t about to give them anything.

  “Wait,” Miles said. “We can’t fire a gun in here. It’s a residential neighbourhood at six in the morning. A gunshot is something people will notice.”

  “So what? You want me to let him live?” Carl sounded suspicious.

  “No. If he keeps breathing, it’s just a matter of time before he tries to prove he’s the smartest guy in the room again. He needs to die. Just quietly. Use a knife.”

  “I don’t have a knife.”

  “Thomas has to have something in the kitchen,” Miles said. Without waiting, Miles went off in search of something sharp. From the couch, I heard drawers loudly opening and closing in the other room. A second later Miles was back holding the handle of a downward-turned chef’s knife. “Use this,” he said.

  “Why don’t you do it?” Carl said.

  Miles looked at Carl. “You don’t trust me?”

  “I do, Miles, I do. I just need to see that you’re all in. Just consider this sealing the deal.”

  “Handshake won’t do?”

  Carl shook his head.

  Miles sighed and reversed the knife. Carl had the gun on me, but his eyes were on Miles. If he was worried about some kind of ruse, he didn’t need to be. I had been watching Miles closely, looking for some sign that he was pulling a fast one. He was, after all, a professional grifter. But there was no sign that Miles was double-crossing Carl. He, and the knife, kept a wide berth of the wheelman the entire time.

  “Alright,” Miles said. “Alright.”

  Any hopes I had of Miles helping me out vanished when I saw the route he took. I had been hoping he would come straight at me. That direction would obscure Carl’s view. Miles could pass me something that way, or I could try to take the knife off him and use his body as a shield while I tried to find cover. Instead of straight on, Miles went around the couch. He was going to slit my throat.

  I saw Carl’s lips curl into a smile when he saw Miles’ choice. The driver was pleased with what he saw. Miles stepped around Thomas, giving the violinist a wider berth than his still form seemed to require. I turned my body to watch Miles’ approach. It also hid my hand moving into my pocket for the needle Tony had loaded for me. I was too weak to pull Miles over the back of the couch and too slow to spring at Carl. The best I could hope for was stabbing Miles in the eye with the syringe. The chaos that would ensue would be the only opportunity I had to move. I took a deep breath that was more of a shallow rasp and slid the syringe out of my pocket.

  Miles stopped two feet back from the couch and shifted his weight back and f
orth over and over again. He reversed his grip on the knife and then switched back. He was stuck between slice and stab. He was used to ripping open pockets, not throats. He had no idea that both choices came with equal amounts of gore.

  “Stop looking at me,” Miles said.

  “Just do it.”

  “Carl, he’s fucking looking at me. I can see his eyes in the reflection of the picture on the wall.”

  “Kill him and he’ll stop.”

  Miles sucked a breath in through his teeth and took a step forward. I tightened my fist on the concealed syringe in my hand and had a brief moment of worry about breaking it. I waited for the second step. When his foot moved, so would my arm.

  No step came. Miles threw his hands up and said, “This is too fucked up.”

  “Do it, Miles,” Carl said.

  “Nope. Nope. This is not my thing. I can’t just fucking kill him when he’s looking at me.”

  “This is the deal.”

  “Carl, you need me as much as I need you, so stop trying to order me around. We can compromise. You shoot him. Just put a pillow over his head to muffle the shot.”

  Miles walked back around the couch and threw the knife through the doorway to the kitchen. “This is so screwed up. How did stealing a violin come to fucking stabbing someone in the head?”

  I watched Miles shake his head as he worked through some kind of mental argument. Carl was watching, too. Thomas was looking at me. He had turned his head so that he could see me with the eye that wasn’t completely swollen shut. I searched the eye and saw something there. It might have been pity, or it might have been hatred — it might have been both. The structure of his face was so warped that it made reading his expression impossible. Maybe he was just happy it wasn’t his turn and the thought shocked him. It’s not every day you’re happy to see someone two feet away from you get shot. I looked into the one eye and felt a familiar tug. The side of my lip turned up and a small grin formed. The violinist had no idea what tune I was going to play. Thomas’ one eye narrowed and then he turned away.