Crow's Landing

by Brad Smith

  Dusty involuntarily glanced toward Virgil, and Soup noticed. He pointed the muzzle of the revolver at Virgil’s head.

  “Gimme the fucking keys!”

  Virgil still didn’t move.

  “Okay, tough guy,” Soup said. “You wanna play it like that? That’s cool. But how about this? How about I shoot Dusty?” He swung the barrel toward her.

  “All right,” Virgil said at once. He took the keys from his pocket and tossed them over. They slid across the floor and Soup had to scramble to pick them up. When he straightened, he gave Dusty a look.

  “I wouldn’t never shoot you, Dusty,” he said. “I had to say it though. Man wouldn’t listen to me.”

  Keeping the gun on them, he backed across the gym floor to the open door and went out. Virgil looked over at Dusty.

  “I knew that gun was a bad idea,” he said.

  She opened her mouth to reply and the shooting started.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Soup was hurled back through the doorway as if yanked by an invisible cable, his body moving faster than his feet, his torso jerking back and forth as the slugs tore into him. The shots came from just outside and there were a lot of them, seven or eight in all, and they didn’t stop until Soup collapsed on the floor in front of the stage. He lay there on his back, his right leg twisted awkwardly beneath him. When he went down the revolver slipped from his right hand and clattered across the hardwood, stopping a few feet away. But his left hand still held tightly to the duffel that had cost him his life.

  Hoffman walked in then, slowly, still nervously holding the Glock on Soup. Hoffman’s face was contorted, and he was sweating heavily. The big Russian in the black cowboy hat followed. In contrast to Hoffman, he was practically sauntering, his expression jovial. Hoffman walked over to Soup and kicked him in the ribs, apparently making certain he was dead. He put the Glock in the holster on his belt and knelt down to pry Soup’s fingers from the duffel. So intent was he on the task that he hadn’t noticed Virgil and Dusty, standing across the gym.

  But Yuri had.

  “What do we have here?” the Russian asked. He pointed a large forefinger at Virgil. “You I know. You are fisherman who lose his boat.”

  Since the eruption of gunfire taking Soup out, Virgil had been looking for a way to escape. It seemed there was only the one exit, and with Hoffman and the Russian standing there, it wasn’t an option. That left the windows, but there were just two that were uncovered and they were high and solid-looking in spite of their age. It would be an iffy proposition to take a chance on going through one of them. But staying put was hardly an alternative; Virgil only had to look at Soup lying dead on the floor to know that. Beside him, Dusty appeared remarkably calm.

  Hoffman had been about to open the duffel when Yuri spoke, and now he stood up slowly. He was clearly surprised to see them and immediately put his hand on his gun.

  “And you,” Yuri said, aiming his finger at Dusty now. “You must be girl who cut the ear of the fat man. Now this I enjoyed. Man was big crybaby. Boo hoo … my ear is cut. And he spills his beans to you.” Yuri let out a guffaw, then grew serious. “But it is never explained to me why are you involved in this matter?”

  “She’s working for Parson,” Hoffman said.

  “Parson again,” Yuri said. “Who is this Parson?”

  A look passed over Hoffman’s face. Virgil, watching, was sure that Hoffman was instantly regretting bringing up the name. It had been an impulse, and now he couldn’t bring it back.

  “He’s nobody,” Hoffman said quickly. “Lowlife dealer trying to horn in on this.”

  “Parson owns what’s in the bag,” Dusty said.

  “But Mr. Hoffman is owner,” Yuri said.

  “He stole it,” Dusty said.

  “He stole it from me,” Virgil said. There was something off about the Russian, something he couldn’t name, but it seemed that it might be a good thing to keep him engaged. Maybe he wasn’t as tight with Hoffman as Virgil had imagined.

  “That’s bullshit,” Hoffman was saying. “The cocaine was seized as a result of a police investigation.” He indicated Virgil. “This man had no right to it. He’s lucky I didn’t lock him up.”

  Yuri regarded Hoffman, his mind working, then he turned and crooked a large forefinger, gesturing for Virgil and Dusty to come closer. “We must get to bottom of this,” he said.

  As they walked over, Virgil moved around to Dusty’s left, putting her closer to the door, hoping she might get a chance to make a run for it. Yuri noticed the move.

  “Far enough,” he said. He then walked to Hoffman and took the duffel from his hand. He heaved it up onto the stage and patted it affectionately, like it was a favored pet, before turning back to Hoffman. “This fisherman. Where is his boat?”

  “In my garage, under confiscation,” Hoffman said defiantly. “It was deemed an integral part of a drug smuggling operation and as such it was seized to be held for evidence.”

  Yuri held up his hand. “Hold on,” he said. “You are confusing me. One minute you talk like cop, the next you are attempting to sell to me cocaine. You cannot be both, Mr. Hoffman. We need to make clear who is the owner of this merchandise. If I am intending to buy it, I need to know this.”

  “It belongs to me,” Hoffman said. “It’s that fucking simple.”

  “But this fisherman, he says you took it from him,” Yuri said. “And I believe that this girl concurs with this story.”

  “She’s an ex-con, working for a dealer,” Hoffman said. “You can’t believe her.”

  Virgil watched as Yuri turned his attention to Soup’s body and it came to him what the Russian was doing. He was making a show of it, posing as a man of principle, seeking the facts of the matter. But in truth he was a man who had recognized an opportunity.

  The opportunity to get the cocaine for free.

  “Why do you shoot Mr. Soup?” Yuri asked the cop.

  “Because he stole my property,” Hoffman said. “He’s a common thief.”

  “I can forgive Mr. Soup,” Yuri said. “He was addict. But you, Mr. Hoffman, you do not impress me. You steal this man’s boat and also you take from him the cocaine. However, when Mr. Soup does the same thing, you call him thief and shoot him down like mad dog in the street. You have come to me under false pretenses, Mr. Hoffman.”

  “It belongs to whoever controls it,” Hoffman said. He was whining now, very aware that things were going sideways in a hurry. “I’m the one who did the groundwork. I’m the one who brought it to you. I put my ass on the line with the fucking department!”

  Yuri considered this, tilting his head back and forth in an animated way, like a man deciding which item to order from a menu, then he removed his coat, folded it, and placed it carefully on the edge of the stage. When he turned back toward Hoffman, Virgil saw the heavy revolver tucked in his belt. The Russian held his hands out slightly from his sides, like a gunfighter. Apparently he had decided on his order.

  “You have no code,” he said to Hoffman. “You are Ned Pepper.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Hoffman said. He began to back away.

  “Fill your hand, sonofabitch,” Yuri said softly.

  It appeared at first that Hoffman had no intention of pulling his gun, but unfortunately he was in the same predicament as Virgil and Dusty—the big Russian was between him and the door. He continued to back away but suddenly he stopped. Maybe he saw something in the Russian’s eyes, something that suggested the inevitability of the situation. He reached clumsily for the Glock and Yuri pulled the Colt and shot him in the chest four times.

  The sound of the gunshots rocketed through the building like rolling thunder. Virgil heard Dusty gasp as Hoffman took several faltering steps backward and then, his back to the wall, slid down the concrete surface to rest in a sitting position. After a few seconds, he rolled over onto his side and was still.

  “You know, I could never cotton this man,” Yuri said, still speaking softly.

  Virgil, watching
the Russian carefully, was wishing that he’d emptied the gun. He knew there were two shots left. But two was better than six. Maybe there was a way for them to make a break. If Virgil could create a diversion, there was a chance Dusty could make it to the door. And if Virgil could somehow make the Russian fire two shots without hitting him, he could rush him. He was aware, though, that the man had just fired four times at Hoffman, never missing once.

  It was an iffy proposition all around and in any event it didn’t last very long. It almost seemed as if the Russian was reading his mind. He carefully wiped his prints from the revolver and dropped it beside Soup, a couple of feet from his outstretched hand. Then, before Virgil could move, he reached behind his shirt to produce an Uzi automatic pistol. He gestured with the barrel in the direction of the two dead bodies.

  “This tells whole story, yes?” he said. “Shootout at OK Corral. Dirty cop and crackhead desperado. The ballistic evidence will match nicely. Tragic thing.”

  As he talked he made certain to keep himself between Virgil and Dusty and the door. Virgil glanced behind him, once more considering the side windows, maybe forty feet away. Covering that much ground would take too long. Turning back toward the Russian, his eyes fell on the rope tied off to the wall beside the stage, holding the netting overhead in place. He glanced up quickly, to the basketballs in the netting, and then Yuri began to talk.

  “Now this is part which bothers me,” he said. “I mean this sincerely. I know nothing about you two. Maybe you are good people. Maybe not. Maybe you even have code, like me. On other hand—maybe you are no better than Mr. Hoffman. I will never know.”

  “Take the drugs,” Virgil said. “We don’t even know your name.”

  “But you know my face,” Yuri said. “And you are very persistent in the pursuit of this bag of goodies. This makes me nervous, and I do not wish to leave here feeling nervous. I trust you can understand that.”

  Virgil took a couple of steps to his left, toward the wall.

  “Where are you going?” Yuri asked. “You are going to run through a concrete wall?”

  Virgil held his arms out, as if in surrender. Dusty turned to look at him and for a split second he shifted his eyes to the rope. Her eyes narrowed, as if she was trying to understand, but at least she had caught the look.

  Yuri saw something too. “You be still. I am sorry for this but there is no other way. However, I think we must take a walk in the woods, the three of us.” He gestured at Soup and Hoffman. “This is nice picture I make here. Two more bodies will just confuse things.”

  Virgil was still looking at Dusty and this time he glanced at the door, and back to her again. She nodded, not even trying to hide it from the Russian at this point. Virgil didn’t know if she caught on to everything, but he had to be satisfied that she would break for the door if the chance presented itself.

  “No more with the looks,” Yuri said. “Is no good for you to dream of escape. I am very proficient in the use of this weapon. Come, we must go.”

  “We don’t get a chance?” Virgil said. “You gave Hoffman a chance. Shit, I thought you were a cowboy.”

  “I am cowboy.”

  “Drugstore cowboy maybe,” Virgil said. “A real cowboy would give me a chance.”

  Yuri smiled. It was obviously the type of thing he liked. “You want a chance? What chance?”

  Virgil reached slowly into his pocket and produced his buck knife. Opening the blade, he held the knife forward toward the big Russian.

  Yuri laughed. “You have never heard the joke about the foolish man who brings a knife to a gunfight?”

  “I’ve heard it,” Virgil said. “I guess you’ve never seen a movie called The Magnificent Seven.”

  “I have!” Yuri shouted. “Is a movie I love. With the great Steve McQueen. I know what you refer to. Is James Coburn—the man with the knife. Is a character I admire very much, I must say. Unfortunately for you, you are not James Coburn.”

  “You ain’t Steve McQueen.”

  Yuri actually appeared hurt by the remark. Virgil crouched slightly, flicking the blade back and forth, like a hoodlum in the movies. But he moved once again to his left, within five feet of the rope where it was tied off to the wall.

  “You got grit, fisherman,” Yuri said. “I will give you that.” He dropped the Uzi to his side and squared up to face Virgil. “I will count to three. If you can throw the knife quicker than I can draw, then maybe you will win. But I do not think so.”

  “Start counting,” Virgil said.

  “One—”

  Virgil leapt to the side and cut the rope, heard it whipping like lightning through the pulleys as the netting fell away. Yuri was standing directly under the middle of the load, and as the basketballs cascaded onto him he began firing wildly with the machine gun. The instant he cut the rope, Virgil hit the floor and began to scramble across the hardwood. He glanced up quickly, hoping to see Dusty disappearing out the door.

  But Dusty had no such intention. When Virgil looked up she was sprinting toward Soup’s body, sliding on her hip across the floor for the last few feet. She grabbed the .38 in both hands and from her knees she let loose on the Russian, who was firing at Virgil scurrying across the floor, random shots hitting the bouncing basketballs, the balls popping like firecrackers, the air whooshing out of them. Dusty’s first shot hit Yuri in the shoulder, jerking him back against the stage, and her second took him just beneath his left eye. His head went back, and his black cowboy hat flipped off. Both elbows caught the edge of the stage for a moment and then he pitched forward onto the floor.

  The balls were still bouncing, slower and slower, the hissing of escaping air fading away to nothing. When the noise stopped, Virgil stood and walked over to Dusty. She was still on her knees, the revolver in her hands pointed even yet at the dead Russian. She was trembling. Virgil reached down to help her to her feet. She glanced up at him, as if she wasn’t quite sure who he was, then looked at the revolver in her hand.

  “I knew that gun was a good idea,” he told her.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “We have to move,” Virgil said. “No telling how far those gunshots might travel. This might be hunting country, but that sounded like a war.”

  “Shouldn’t we call somebody?” Dusty said. She stood looking at the bodies scattered across the gymnasium floor.

  “Who we going to call?” Virgil asked. “This was self-defense. Self-preservation. But you’re on parole. You want to try to explain to the cops what happened here?”

  “Someone would have to explain to me first,” she said.

  “Let’s go.”

  After they’d wiped down everything they had touched, Dusty gathered the duffel once more and they headed out. Moving toward the door, Dusty looked at Soup’s body, bent and crumpled on the floor, his eyes wide open, and went back for his jacket, which she placed over him, covering his face. Walking past the dead Russian, Virgil saw her hesitate before leaning down to pick up the Uzi. She glanced at him, and once again he knew she was thinking about Cherry. She probably never stopped thinking about Cherry.

  They got into the truck and drove away along the narrow gravel road. Virgil kept expecting that they would meet the police but they saw no one. Maybe random gunfire wasn’t all that rare in the area. And Pop’s Camp was pretty secluded. They saw a number of people at the cabins they passed on their way out, but nobody seemed to pay them any mind.

  By the time they were back on the main highway, heading east, it was early evening. It was a long drive back to the city and Virgil was still concerned that someone had noticed something and taken down his plate number. If there was nothing on the news by morning, it meant that the carnage at the camp hadn’t been discovered. He decided that the smart move would be to lie low overnight.

  “Okay,” Dusty said without hesitation when he suggested it. “Christ, I’m tired to the bone.”

  A short time later, they saw a sign advertising Ronnie’s Rustic Cottages, with an arrow pointing north. I
t was dusk when they took the road down to a small lake, about a mile long and half that distance across, surrounded by evergreens. Ronnie’s was a humble operation, with a main house attached to a registration office and several imitation log cabins behind, stretched along the lakeshore. A tall thin woman with frizzy red hair checked them in, and they asked for the cabin farthest from the office. By the time they parked and went inside, it was nine o’clock.

  The cottage featured a combination kitchen–living room, a bathroom, and two bedrooms, rough-hewn pine furniture, and pictures of mountains and streams and Indians on horseback. The place smelled of cleaning fluids.

  Virgil brought in the box containing the remaining pieces of chicken and fries they’d bought earlier. Dusty carried the heavy duffel from the truck and placed it on the floor in the living room. She turned to look at Virgil, then sat down on the couch and put her hands over her face. He thought for a moment that she was crying, but when she took her hands away her eyes were dry. He had no idea what was going through her head. The last couple of days would have broken most people.

  Virgil went back out to the truck. When they left the farm that morning he’d thrown some cheese and crackers in a Budweiser cooler bag and stashed it behind the seat. Along with the food, he’d brought along the bottle of Jameson they opened the night before. Back inside, he placed the bag on the kitchen table and took out the whisky. While he went through the cupboards, looking for glasses, Dusty walked over and had a drink from the bottle. She looked at him, then drank again before putting it down.

  She looked tired and distracted as she sat down at the table. Virgil poured some whisky into plastic cups and put one in front of her. After taking a drink, she reached for her purse. She found her phone and began to search for something else, finally dumping the contents onto the table in frustration. After a moment she came up with a business card, which she placed flat in front of her. From where Virgil stood, he could see a caricature of a hot rod on the card. Dusty opened her phone to punch in the number, and stopped.