by K. W. Jeter
There were some others waiting for him, in one of the back booths. They weren’t drinking, not this early in the day, except for the stuff that was constantly simmering on the bar’s little one-ring hot plate, turning into something that tasted more like kerosene than coffee. If it’d ever actually ignited, it would have set fire to the thatched bamboo awning over the bar, incinerating the dusty coconuts and moth-eaten stuffed monkeys up there.
Foley went behind the bar – he had those privileges – poured himself a cup, then carried it over to the booth. The others made room for him as he slid in.
“So what’s the guy saying?” He took a sip – it not only tasted like coffee to him, but was actually the kind he preferred – and looked up at the vintage TV hanging in the nearest corner of the lounge.
“Beats the crap out of me.” That was Earl, sitting next to him. “Something about how everything’s going to get better.”
The figure barely visible on the screen – the TV was in the last wavery stages before fritzing out completely – was the president of the United States. Giving some kind of speech, maybe at one of those town hall-type meetings. The guys in the booth would’ve probably watched something else, if the TV had still gotten any other channel. At least that was what one of them told me, later on.
“Better, huh?” That was another of the guys in the booth, named Elton, chiming in. “Let me know when it happens.”
With his hands wrapped around his coffee cup, Foley went on watching the blurry screen. He nodded slowly, as though deep in some personal meditation.
“You know,” he spoke at last, “I remember seeing JFK on the TV. When I was just a little kid.”
“Who?”
“Kennedy. President Kennedy.”
“Oh.” Elton nodded. “Before my time, man.”
“Read a book, why don’t you?” Earl glanced over at him. “Learn something. Instead of being an ignorant dumb hillbilly your whole life.”
The remark slid over Elton’s head without causing any rancor. Given his background, it was more a simple statement of fact than any kind of pejorative.
“Actually,” said Foley, “you should know about JFK.”
“Yeah?” Elton raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Business. The boss talks about him. Big on the dude. You know, the way some important people are always reading up on Winston Churchill –”
“Don’t know him, either.”
“Not surprised.” Foley sipped at his coffee. “Ya moron.”
“He’s right,” said Earl. “Mr. Falcone said something about JFK just a coupla days ago. He said if the Kennedys could go legit, goes to show that anybody can.”
“It’s not ‘Fal-cone-ee’ anymore.” Foley let his irritation show. “It’s ‘Fal-kun.’ You know, like the car.”
“The Ford Falcon?” This much, Elton knew about. “Man, they haven’t made that car in years. Lotsa years.” He shook his head. “Hanging out with you senior citizens is like waking up inside a museum.”
The guy had a point there. If you hadn’t picked up on it already, then yeah, definitely, some of the people sitting in the booth were a little on the arthritic side. Still nobody you’d want to screw around with, though. I’ve dealt with them, so I can assure you – they might have been old, but they could hand some young punk’s ass back to him on a platter.
“Besides,” continued Elton. “That car was a piece of crap.”
“Okay –” Foley shrugged. “So it’s not like the car, then.”
“Will you guys knock it off?” That was Heinz, sitting on the other side of the booth. “Where’s Curt?”
“He’s going to meet us there,” said Foley.
Heinz nodded and pulled a snub-nose Police Special out of his overcoat pocket. None of the other men paid any attention as he set it on the table and began loading it up with ammo.
Foley looked over at Elton. And scowled. “What’s with the sideburns?”
“They’re muttonchops, man. They’re like fashionable.”
“Again? And you’re getting on my ass about how old I am?”
“Okay, so they’re back in fashion. You see a lot of young guys wearing ’em now.”
“Yeah,” said Foley. “My great-grandfather figured they were pretty hot, too. He fought in the Civil War.”
“Sure that wasn’t your twin brother?”
“Come on.” Earl pushed against Foley’s shoulder. “Let’s get going.”
Heinz packed away his gun and followed Earl toward the bar’s Naugahyde-padded door. Foley and Elton stopped in the middle of the room, gazing up toward the TV.
“Know what I remember him saying?” Foley nodded toward the murmuring set. “Kennedy, I mean.”
“Told you, man. I wasn’t there. Wasn’t even born.”
“He said . . .” Foley’s brow creased with the effort of memory. “He said there was a New Frontier coming.” He glanced over at the other man. “Can you dig it?”
“Huh. So . . . did it?”
“Did what?”
“The New Frontier,” said Elton. “Did it come along?”
It took a few seconds for Foley to answer.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe. I’ll have to think about it.”
The two of them followed the others out onto the wintry street.
* * *
I knew the neighborhood they drove out to. I’d been out there before, for job reasons. Both when I’d been working as an accountant for a real sonuvabitch named McIntyre, then later when I’d been getting set up to kill him.
So I knew the area. Very posh. Best part of town, really. Where you could practically smell the money, as if the people who lived there were burning stacks of it in the fireplaces of their mansions.
The four guys from the bar – Foley, Heinz, and Earl, plus their marginally younger coworker Elton – were all piled into a shiny black Lincoln Continental. That was the crew’s main ride, a real museum piece. The beast was so long it could’ve used a Toyota to help steer it around corners.
Curt told me all about it one time. “The world feared us,” he said gravely, “when we built cars like this.”
I supposed he was right about that. I hadn’t even been born then.
Anyway, the Lincoln scraped against the curb, the way it always did, then lumbered on up the curving driveway toward the red-brick pile at its end, impressive even by this neighborhood’s standards.
Inside the mansion, Curt was already up in the master bedroom suite, helping their boss get dressed.
“I’m hoping there’s not going to be any problems.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, Curt watched Mr. Falcon knotting his necktie over at the mirror. “We don’t have to go in if it’s going to be a problem.”
Money helps when you get older. Falcon – formerly Fal-cone-ee – was probably older than any of the guys working for him. But he had that sleek, silver-fox gloss that comes when you can afford to get yourself polished up at spas and resorts.
“Why should there be a problem?” Gazing into the mirror, Falcon fussed with the crease at the bottom of the knot. “What’ve you heard?”
“Nothing, actually. But . . .” Curt shrugged. “We kicked his ass pretty bad, a few years ago.”
“A few years?” Falcon glanced over his shoulder. “Curt, that was ten years ago. Karsh was a petty little hoodlum then. He’s a businessman now.” He turned his attention back to his tie. “Like me.”
“Yeah, but – you know – people remember stuff like that.”
Falcon turned from the mirror, picked up his suit jacket from the wooden valet, and slipped it on.
“I think,” he gently chided, “that you’re the one having a problem. Just relax.”
He strode out of the bedroom, checking his cufflinks. Curt pushed himself up from the bed and followed him out.
The bodyguards were waiting for them downstairs, in the foyer.
“You gentlemen all set?”
“Ready if you are.” Foley pulled the mass
ive front door open. “After you.”
* * *
Falcon sat in the back of the Lincoln, with Foley and Elton on either side of him. Heinz drove – he was the only one who Falcon would allow behind the wheel of his baby – with Earl beside him.
“Did you gentlemen watch the president’s speech today?”
“Yeah,” said Foley. “I mean . . . part of it, Mr. Falcon.”
“Really?” Falcon smiled. “What did he say?”
That left Foley stuck for an answer. “Uh . . . everything’s going great?”
Falcon shook his head. “I’ve told you before, Foley. I’ve told all of you –”
Heinz glanced up at the rear-view mirror.
“A businessman knows what’s going on in the world. It’s important.” Falcon turned toward his other side. “You know that, don’t you, Elton?”
“Very important, Mr. Falcon.” Elton nodded vigorously. “Things are changing. It’s the New Frontier.”
Falcon stared at him for a moment, then turned away.
“You know . . . you’re right,” he said thoughtfully. “You’re absolutely right about that.”
He didn’t notice Foley beside him, rolling his eyes up toward the Lincoln’s upholstered ceiling.
* * *
Curt kept the Chevy he was driving close behind the other car. As he drove, he leaned forward and opened up the glove compartment. He reached inside it and pulled out a plain, no-nonsense revolver. One-handed, he checked to see that the gun was fully loaded, then tucked it inside his jacket.
* * *
The Lincoln was already parked, right in front of its destination, when Curt pulled up. Nobody had kept a space roped off for him, so he had to park on the other side of the street. Slamming the driver’s side door shut, he carefully scanned the area, looking down the blocks in either direction, before he started across.
A place like this, there wasn’t some crappy sizzling neon over the door. Just a discreet sign, elegant letters embossed into brutalist steel plate, reading Lido. Curt exchanged a nod with the doorman before he followed the rest of the group inside.
With Falcon at their center, the other men walked through the restaurant lobby. They’d all done this sort of thing so many times before that they took their assigned positions without needing any direction from Curt. Heinz and Earl were in front of Falcon, with Foley and Elton bringing up the rear. From the steps just inside the front door, Curt watched as another figure rushed up to the group.
“Everything’s ready, Mr. Falcone –”
Heinz and Earl had stepped slightly to either side, so the restaurant owner could speak to their boss.
“It’s Falcon.” He spoke with gentle patience. “Remember?”
“Yes, of course –” The other man went all flustered. “My apologies –”
Falcon waved him off. “Has Mr. Karsh arrived already?”
“One of his assistants called. They’re on their way.” The restaurant’s owner looked around at the knot of bodyguards. “Perhaps you gentlemen would care for a cocktail while you wait?”
They all gazed silently back at him, without smiles. Which only made the man more nervous.
“Well, then –”
He turned away from them. The two gunshots that came from the far side of the restaurant struck him in the chest, the force of their impact slamming his shoulders into Falcon behind him. Falcon took an involuntary step backward as the other man’s body collapsed to the floor.
The bodyguards were already in motion.
These guys were professionals. In a job like theirs, you don’t get that old unless you’re good at it. I wish I could’ve seen them at work, instead of just hearing about it afterward.
Earl and Heinz grabbed their boss and dove flat with Falcon between them. Foley and Elton had pulled their guns from inside their jackets and sprinted to either side of the room, as Curt drew back to the side of the doorway, scanning through the sights of his revolver toward the far end of the restaurant.
Earl crawled to the nearest table, toppled it over, and dragged it back toward Heinz and Falcon as a shield. Another shot from the unseen attacker slammed into the tabletop as he got it into position. Above his head, a volley of shots from the other bodyguards rang out.
For a moment, everything was quiet inside the restaurant, as the overlapping echoes of the gunshots died away.
Spine plastered against the side of the doorway, Curt directed the others with hand gestures. Foley and Elton covered each other, each taking a shot toward the attacker so the other could race toward the restaurant bar and dive behind it.
More shots hammered the overturned table, spraying splinters from its underside across Falcon and the other bodyguards. Earl and Heinz leaned out from around its sides and fired back. Curt took advantage of the exchange, ducking down and running until he was behind the tabletop shield as well.
He looked around at Earl and Heinz. “Whoever this sonuvabitch is, he’s got himself dug in over there. Gonna be hard to get a clear shot at him.” He looked over his shoulder at his boss behind him. “We gotta get you out of here.”
Curt could see over to where Elton had taken up a position behind one corner of the bar. He caught Elton’s eye and signaled with a nod toward the attacker. Elton cautiously raised his head and scoped out the angle toward the restaurant kitchen – that was where the shots seemed to have come from. With the kitchen’s overhead lights out, there was no way the attacker could be seen in the darkened area. There were plenty of positions behind the stoves and counters where he could fire from.
A well-aimed shot drove Elton back behind the corner of the bar. With a shake of his head, Elton signaled across to Curt that he didn’t have an angle on the attacker.
Behind the overturned table, Curt turned toward Heinz. “Get the car ready,” instructed Curt. “Soon as we’ve got Mr. Falcon in, hit the gas. Don’t wait for the rest of us.”
“No problem,” said Heinz. “Long as you’ve got us covered.”
“Give me your gun.”
Heinz handed over his weapon. Curt bent farther down and sighted along the restaurant’s floor toward the bar – there was a narrow but open line through the chairs and other tables. He set Heinz’s gun down flat on the floor, pulled his arm back, then sent the gun spinning across the room. The gun hit the bottom of the bar, close to the corner. Elton cautiously reached around and picked up the gun. Now he had a weapon in each hand.
Behind the bar, Elton looked toward Foley crouching down at its other end. “You wanna do this? Or do you want me to?”
Foley shrugged. “Why don’t you go ahead? You’re a lot younger. And my back’s been killing me lately.”
“You got it, grandpa. Ready?”
“Roll it out –”
That was all they had to say to each other.
Foley stood up behind the bar and started firing into the unlit doorway of the kitchen. At the same time, Elton launched himself head-first into the middle of the chairs and tables, firing with both guns as he dove to the floor. The attacker got off a pair of wild shots, but was driven back by the bodyguards’ coordinated fire.
Behind the overturned table, Curt shoved against Heinz’s shoulders. “Go!”
Hunched over, Heinz sprinted from the table’s shield and toward the restaurant exit. A shot from the kitchen splintered the wall near his shoulder, but he made it to the doorway and out of the attacker’s line of fire.
Back in the center of the restaurant, Elton landed on his side, left leg tangled in one of the chairs. Still laying down a cover of gunshots, Foley ran out from behind the bar, reached down with his free hand, and grabbed Elton’s arm, pulling him up to his feet. One behind the other, both men pressed their spines close to the wall, a few feet from the edge of the kitchen doorway.
A tense silence – the kind you get when there’s been a lot of gunfire in a few seconds – filled the restaurant. At one side, Foley and Elton quickly reloaded their guns. From behind the overturned table, Cu
rt couldn’t see them; he had no way of knowing if they had made it past the shots from the kitchen doorway. Crouching down behind Earl and Falcon, he listened for a signal. It finally came – when Foley finished reloading, he loudly rapped three times on the wall behind him.
That was the cue for all the bodyguards to get ready. Lifting himself a bit from where he knelt, Earl got a grip on the table’s top and bottom edges. Curt wrapped an arm around Falcon’s shoulders. With his free hand, he rapped with his knuckles on the floor. Once . . . twice . . .
Three. The crew erupted into action. Foley and Elton pushed themselves away from the side wall and began pouring gunfire into the kitchen doorway. At the same time, Earl lunged forward with the table shield, using it as a battering ram, scattering the chairs and other tables in front of it as he charged toward the kitchen.
Covered by Foley and Elton’s gunfire, plus Earl’s rushing forward with the overturned table, Curt pulled Falcon to his feet. He raced with the other man, both hunched over, toward the restaurant entrance.
Curt shoved his boss to safety in front of himself, then turned and saw Foley and Elton still out in the open, firing into the darkened kitchen. Below their line of fire, Earl had gotten the table shield within a couple of feet of the kitchen doorway. He crouched behind it, leaning out to the side and getting off a few more shots.
From the restaurant doorway, Curt could see that there were no flashes of answering gunfire from inside the kitchen. He shouted to the others: “Hold it! Hold it –”
The other bodyguards looked over their shoulders at him. They stopped firing and lowered their weapons.
Curt looked around, intently listening. Gunfire could still be heard, but not inside the restaurant. The noise came from out front.
He pushed Falcon back against the entranceway wall, then yanked the door open. The gunfire had stopped. He rushed outside, his own gun raised in one hand. From behind him, he could hear the clatter of the other bodyguards pushing their way through the restaurant tables and chairs as they followed after him.
