by Paul Monette
The cop’s face glazed over with boredom. In a patronizing tone he said: “Why don’t you check the SPCA in the morning? They handle that kinda stuff.”
Tony gasped. “Jesus, that’s not the place where they chop the dogs up, is it? What’ll I tell my kids?”
Already the cop was rolling up his window. “Look it up in the yellow pages, pal,” he said, and the cruiser glided away.
When it had safely turned the corner, Tony grinned and whirled around once more to the Chevette. He banged on the hood three times and said: “Hey jerkoff, come on outa there! You’re under arrest!”
The Shadow slid out from under the car, his gun drawn, the hate in his face so huge he could have opened fire in a schoolyard. His face was drenched in sweat from the tension of the work. He too seemed to understand that a lot of bombs went off before their time. Tony’s joke about being arrested wasn’t funny to him at all. His eyes blazed with loathing and contempt.
Tony winked. “Pretty close, huh?”
In that moment the Shadow seemed to mark Tony’s name at the top of a list. Tony, who had a list of his own, could see the vow take shape in the murderer’s livid face. Then the Shadow inched back under the car to put the final touches on his package. Tony smiled to think they were conscious enemies now, and he pulled out his coke for another toot, almost as if to toast them.
Twenty minutes later they were pulling into the garage at the Sherry Netherlands. Tony had booked a two-bedroom suite, with a view out over the Plaza fountain and the autumn riot of color in the Park. They ordered some food, but the Shadow retired to his bedroom to eat. He didn’t want to socialize—not a word had passed his lips since the bomb was locked in place—and he needed a good night’s sleep before his big performance. Nick ate like a veritable pig, talking volubly all the while and even making Tony laugh as he laid out lines on the nightstand. It was only fair to give Nick what he wanted on a night like this, and so they ordered him up a hooker. She arrived in a fur coat and looked like Loni Anderson. She seemed disappointed not to be screwing Tony, but sauntered into the bedroom philosophically. Nick charged in after like a fullback.
So the upshot was, Tony was all alone and not the least bit tired. Or horny. He finished another gram of coke and put in a call to Nashville to talk to Manolo. But Manolo had already been and gone, and Tony couldn’t rouse him at his apartment in Miami. He was probably with the married lady. Tony flashed on the woman of the barracks, long ago in Havana. He still could see her face the night he shot her husband in the car. He could not remember making love to her.
He dialed his own number in Miami, and he asked the servant woman in Spanish how Elvira was. “Crying,” she said. He thanked her and was about to hang up when Elvira’s voice came through on the extension. “What do you want?” she said quietly, not hostile for once.
“I don’t know,” said Tony. “I’m sorry, honey.”
“Shh, don’t be.” He could hear her fumbling with something in the background. For a second he thought she had somebody there. Manolo, maybe. His hands began to shake with rage, then all of a sudden he heard her snort, twice in rapid succession. She was just getting wrecked like he was. She said: “We’re too much alike, Tony. That’s our problem. Neither one of us trusts anybody.”
“Well, so we’re made for each other, huh?” He bent over with his rolled-up hundred and snorted a line. “Why don’t we give it another try, baby? We got a few mill stashed now. Why don’t we sail around the world or somethin’?”
“No thanks, Tony. I’ve been on that trip before.” Another double snort. “I mean, I’ve been all packed and ready to go a dozen different times. Something always comes up. The boat never leaves the dock. So don’t talk around the world, okay?”
There was silence now for a minute or so, but a peaceful sort of silence. They seemed to bear no animosity toward one another. It seemed enough that they were both insomniac and glad not to be alone. Tony watched out the window at the lights of New York. In the bedroom behind him he could hear the furious sounds of Nick the Pig making love. He almost said he was going to be home tomorrow night, and why didn’t they all go out for dinner, Manolo too. Then he realized they’d already done that. Besides, the rules for this quiet moment seemed to caution against proposals of any sort. He was so glad to find they weren’t fighting, he wondered if they couldn’t just confine it to phone calls for a while. He almost said he loved her but didn’t want to press his luck. So all he said was, very softly: “Goodnight, honey.”
“Yeah, you too.”
He heard the click as the line went dead and stayed at the window, the phone still at his ear. After a moment the night operator came on and said: “Can I help you, sir?” Tony shook his head slowly and replaced the receiver. He walked across the room to get another gram out of his suitcase and on the way back flicked on the television set. Suddenly there was Bogart’s face, curled in a sneer as he told somebody to buzz off.
Tony propped up the pillows to watch. The film was Petrified Forest, and Bogart was Duke Mantee. It was already more than half over, and Tony was too coked out to pick up the thread of the story. Didn’t matter. He was happy to just sit and watch Bogart, with his big sad hunted eyes and the raw nerve of betrayal in his voice. Methodically Tony laid out lines. He ordered up a bottle of scotch from room service, because that was what Bogart appeared to be drinking.
Before he had watched a half hour he was talking back to the screen. Duke Mantee would ask a question of one of his gangster buddies, and Tony would ramble something in response. “No Duke, the coast ain’t clear,” he said. “It’s all killers out there. Ain’t a good man left.” He snorted and then guzzled scotch from the bottle. He gave a rueful laugh. “I gotta be honest wit’ you, Duke. I don’t think we’re gonna make it.”
The scotch began to affect him now. As the film reached its climax, about ten minutes before the end, Tony began to see double. He tried to lean over for another toot, but he couldn’t get the rolled-up bill to synchronize with the line of coke. He squinted and leaned forward and managed to knock the nightstand over. A gram of coke fell like a flurry of snow on the carpet. Though he still had a king’s ransom of it in his suitcase, Tony fell to his knees and leaned down and tried to snort it up.
He happened to look up just then and caught a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror, crawling around like a pig after truffles. He laughed coarsely and slumped against the bed. He reached for his bottle and took a belt. When he focused on the screen again, he had switched the film in his mind and thought it was Treasure of the Sierra Madre. He was crouched beneath an overhang with Bogart, looking out on the pitiless desert.
“I’ll tell ya somethin’, Fred,” slurred Tony, “they all turn on ya. Every fuckin’ one of ’em. The only reason they stick around is they think you know where the treasure is.” He couldn’t see straight to do more coke, and when he grabbed for the scotch he knocked the bottle over. It sank in the carpet like water in sand. “But I don’t, Fred. I don’t know where the fuck it is.” He held his head and tried to shake it clear, but this only made it throb. He was almost whimpering now. “Maybe there isn’t any, huh? Huh, Fred? Maybe there ain’t no treasure at all.”
And then he passed out.
By seven A.M. they were sitting in the car on 81st, waiting for Gutierrez. His speech at the U.N. was at nine-thirty, but they knew he was expected early, for breakfast with the American ambassador. Nick sat in the driver’s seat, sipping coffee out of a paper cup and working his way through a bag of doughnuts. Tony sat beside him leaning over the glove compartment, laying out the day’s first dose. Nick made no mention of finding him sprawled on the carpet just after dawn, blood dribbling out of his nose and the corners of his mouth, the TV blaring a test pattern. Nick had washed his face and covered him with a blanket, then gone back to bed to snuggle with the hooker. Tony was up before everyone else, hustling the rest of them out of bed, seemingly none the worse for wear.
Now the Shadow watched him with di
sdain as he bent to snort two lines. In his lap the Shadow held the radio transmitter, a box of wires and circuits, beautifully intricate, with a light that would flash red as soon as Gutierrez began to drive and a detonate button of mother-of-pearl. The Shadow sat aloof from the two clowns in the front seat. He was on a mission that would change the face of a whole country. His eyes glowed like a fanatic.
Tony turned to Nick. “Change places with him, okay?” Then he craned around and grinned at Alberto. “I want you to sit up here, pal. You’ll have a better view.”
Nick didn’t mind at all. He was delighted to see Tony taking charge, and anyway he didn’t want the responsibility. He climbed out the driver’s side and slipped into the back seat. Alberto was much more rattled by the rearrangement. As Tony slid over to the driver’s seat, Alberto cursed under his breath and got out on the passenger’s side like he was holding a box of eggs. He settled himself in a gingerly way in the seat Tony had occupied, and when he looked up he groaned with dismay, for Gutierrez had managed to slip into his car unnoticed, and now he was driving away.
Tony shrieked off in pursuit, staying about a block behind once the two cars turned onto Park. The Shadow let out a stream of Spanish: “Thirty meters, thirty meters! If he gets any further away, I lose him!” The red light was flashing on the box.
“Don’t worry, pal,” said Tony. “When we get to the U.N., he’ll be right within range. I’m not gonna fuck it up. It’s my chance to be a hero, right?”
But the Shadow was too intent on his bomb to pay any attention to Tony rattling along in English. When they stopped for a red light, Tony took out his vial of coke and snorted. The Shadow exploded with invective.
“Hey, where the hell’s he goin’?” said Nick from the back seat.
For Gutierrez had suddenly slowed and made a turn. Tony followed cautiously. Gutierrez drew up to the curb in front of a church where a small crowd was gathered, chatting with the priest after early Mass. Suddenly from the crowd appeared Gutierrez’s wife, two children close behind her. They all began to climb into the Chevette.
Tony whirled around on Nick. “I thought you said she took ’em to school herself.”
“She does, boss. Every day. We’ve had somebody watching all week.”
“Hurry up!” cried the Shadow. “They’re leaving.”
Tony put the car into gear and followed Gutierrez, but he said: “No way, José. No wife, no kids. We hit him alone or not at all.”
“Those aren’t my orders,” replied Alberto stiffly.
“I don’t give a fuck what your orders are.”
Alberto was furious. “Listen, Montana, that bomb is hanging by a little tape. A few bumps and it just might fall. If it does he’ll know. There’ll be publicity. If we fail, you take the responsibility for it Montana, not me. You.”
Tony didn’t seem to be listening. “They must be outa school for the speech,” he said.
Gutierrez pulled off Second Avenue onto 47th Street. A cab jutted in behind him, so Tony was one car back. The orders were very clear: it had to be done right in front of the U.N. Building, for maximum coverage. The Shadow inserted a key into the mechanism, releasing the safety on the detonator. Gutierrez turned off 47th onto First Avenue, heading into the thick of the traffic in front of the building. Tony’s hands were shaking on the wheel, but he darted around the cab and got right behind the Chevette.
“Easy, easy,” whispered the Shadow as they inched along.
“What am I doin’, Fred?” asked Tony. “What the fuck am I doin’ here?” He honked at a truck that tried to cut in between him and the Chevette. About twenty feet away along the curb, a courtly group of officials waited for Gutierrez, waving when they saw him. A special VIP space had been roped off. Tony pulled the bullet inhaler out of his pocket and snorted. “They’re all vultures, Fred,” he said. “They don’t give a shit about nothin’.”
Nick leaned forward from the back seat and gripped Tony’s shoulder. “Boss, what are you talkin’ about?”
The guards parted the roped stanchions so Gutierrez could slip into his space. From where he was following ten feet behind, Tony could see the two kids through the rear windshield, jumping about with excitement. The Shadow was leaning forward in his seat, his index finger on the detonator.
“Bunch of vultures, Fred,” muttered Tony. “They don’t even have the guts to look him in the eye. What am I doin’ here, huh?”
“Shut the fuck up!” said the Shadow.
Gutierrez was nosing the car into the space. Two guards stood on either side of him, directing him in. The Shadow’s head began to nod in rhythm, like he was counting down from ten to zero.
“Not two kids and a woman,” said Tony. “Hey, Fred, I don’t need that shit in my life.”
And he reached down and snapped the Baretta free from his ankle holster. He swung it up and leveled it at the Shadow. Alberto glanced down bewildered, as if there was some mistake about the weapon for this hit. “Die, motherfucker,” said Tony coldly, and pumped two bullets right into his face. The Shadow’s features were blown away, and the body smashed against the door as blood rained all over the car. The death box fell to the floor, its red light still flashing.
“Ohmygod!” cried Nick. “What’re ya doin’?”
But it was done now. Tony swerved the sedan out of the curb lane just as Gutierrez and his family tumbled out of the car. The noise of the traffic had muffled the sound of the shots, and anyway they were all too busy greeting Gutierrez to notice a mere aborted act of terrorism. They had their hands full cleaning up after the ones that didn’t abort. In a moment Tony was lost in traffic, and nobody seemed to look twice at the rosy streaks of blood that tinted his windows.
Nick was gasping in panic in the back seat, but Tony began to chuckle. “I told you don’t fuck with me, didn’t I?” he said, taking another snort from his inhaler. “They always forget a man’s limits, don’t they, Fred? Fuckin’ worms, that’s what they are. If somebody don’t stand up to ’em, they’ll eat the world alive.”
He began to whistle. He was in a great mood as the sedan cut away off First Avenue and headed into the bowels of the city.
Chapter Nine
THE CAR WAS no problem. Tony drove to the docks and parked it beside a rotting warehouse that seemed to be crawling with vermin, human and otherwise. The Shadow was still slumped against the door as Tony and Nick got out. Tony retrieved the box from the floor and heaved it into the river. He left the car unlocked, with the keys in the ignition. He figured there were water rats who’d steal it without getting squeamish about a hitman with his face blown off. If they didn’t steal it, at least they’d strip it within the hour.
As Tony and Nick walked a few blocks west to catch a cab, Nick began to calm down. He had a short attention span when it came to death, and besides, Tony’s good cheer was infectious, even if it required a dose every fifteen minutes. They taxied back to the Sherry, and Tony put in a call to the New York police, reporting his rental car stolen. “It’s a damn shame,” said Tony to the sergeant who took the call, “that a man can’t come to New York and have a good time without gettin’ ripped off. What’s the world comin’ to, huh?”
Then they packed the bags and took a cab to Kennedy. They got caught in a tangle of rush-hour traffic, but the cabbie was more than glad to while away the hour getting ripped on Tony’s coke. They reached the Pan Am terminal about twenty minutes before flight time. Tony put in a call to Manolo in Miami, but once again there was no one home. Tony had a moment of confusion when he couldn’t remember what was on for today. Were they getting the boats ready to unload a trawler off the Keys? Had the half of the coke that wasn’t going to Nashville arrived in Miami this morning, or was that next week? Or was that last week?
Tony snorted a double dose from the inhaler and dialed his own number, hoping Elvira wouldn’t pick up. He wanted to talk business. He needed to be in charge again, so he wouldn’t start thinking too hard about the ramifications of the Shadow’s death. Ch
i-Chi answered.
“Hello boss,” he said cheerfully. “How’d it go?” At least he wasn’t nodding out.
“It went shitty,” retorted Tony. “I got Bolivian blood all over my nice gray suit. I look like a butcher. Where the fuck’s Manolo?”
“I don’t know, Tony. He ain’t been around since he got back last night from wherever the hell he was.”
“Nashville. You better go find him fast, Chich. ’Cause he’s in charge, and if anything gets fucked up while I’m away, I’m gonna hand him his ass. And then I’m gonna hand you yours.”
“Boss, whatsamatter? You don’t sound too good.”
“Yeah, well I caught a little cold.” He snorted twice. “Who’s he screwin’, Chich?”
“I dunno, Tony. He’s like a kid he’s so happy. Let him go with it, huh? Everything’s fine here. The grass came in last night, and it’s real pretty stuff. It’ll go for a hundred and a half an ounce. We got eighty tons.”
“Find him, Chich. I need to talk to him.”
The flight was announced to Miami/Lauderdale. Nick was beckoning from the gate. He clearly wanted to get out of New York posthaste.
“Tony, your Mama’s been callin’ all day. She sounds freaked out.”
Tony only half took it in. He asked about Elvira, who hadn’t been out of her room since he left. She’d eaten nothing from the trays that were taken in. Tony issued a couple of orders and demanded that the limo be there to pick them up when they landed. As he hung up the phone he experienced a terrible tightness in his chest, as if he couldn’t keep track any more of everyone he’d lost. He was scared of the sorrow that waited to weigh him down. More scared of that than of anyone out there who might have his name at the top of a list.
He loped across to the gate, and he and Nick took their places in first class. They didn’t speak the whole way down. Not that Nick was brooding very much. As long as he’d managed to get away, he had no trouble putting the events of the morning into perspective. Because he was not the boss, he didn’t have to anticipate the confrontation with Sosa. He ate like a pig again, the very same meal he’d eaten the day before, double helpings.
