The Devil’s Share

by Wallace Stroby

  She started the engine. More police cars out there now, parked at angles. She needed to get out of there before they blocked off the street. Uniformed officers were standing around talking, looking up at the fire. They’d be canvassing for witnesses soon.

  She had to get to a phone, call Chance. One of the cops turned and came back toward her, the same one from before. He was saying something she couldn’t hear, motioning for her to roll down her window. She raised a hand as if to acknowledge him, cut the wheel into a tight U-turn, watched him in the rearview as she drove away.

  * * *

  In the motel room, she dialed Chance’s cell from memory. When it went to voice mail, she said, “It’s me. Call me soon as you can,” and read off the number on the front of the phone.

  Her clothes reeked of smoke and gasoline. She left them on the bathroom floor, turned on the shower. She could hear better from her left ear now, though the sound of the water was still muffled. When she climbed in, the hot water on her scalp made her gasp. She shut her eyes, kept her head under the spray, trying not to cry out. When she opened her eyes again, pink water was circling the drain.

  You fucked up, she thought. Bad. You’re lucky to be alive.

  All of it settling in on her now, what had happened, how close it had been. She thought about Maddie, the last time she’d seen her, at the playground, laughing, running. How close she’d come to never seeing her again.

  She was trembling now, chills running through her. She made the water hotter, but it had no effect. Finally, she sank down in the tub, arms around her knees, steam rising around her, and shook.

  * * *

  They sat in the big first-floor living room, watching cable news on the wall-mounted plasma TV. On the screen was a helicopter shot of the burning parking garage, smoke rising up. Titles at the bottom of the screen read POSSIBLE CAR BOMB EXPLOSION IN PHOENIX, ARIZ. CASUALTIES UNKNOWN.

  “They’ll say it’s terrorism,” Cota said. He had a full glass of scotch in his hand, no ice. “The government will be involved, Homeland Security. Convince me there wasn’t a better way to do this. A more circumspect way.”

  “The car’s untraceable,” Hicks said. “You don’t have to worry about that. And this was the best way. The money was the only bait that would bring her. She was too smart, too careful. And it had to be someplace public. She wouldn’t have gone for anything else.”

  “A little too public.”

  “I’d hoped they’d take the car somewhere, maybe to where the other one was, too, before they popped the trunk. That way we’d have gotten all of them at once.”

  “Then you miscalculated.”

  “No. I knew there was a chance this would happen, but there was nothing I could do about it. You can’t cover every contingency, no matter how hard you try.”

  “And still, the job is only half done.”

  “We’ll find Chance some other way. I have some ideas.”

  “And the man in Kansas City?”

  “Him, too,” Hicks said.

  “You seem confident.”

  “It’ll take them days—maybe months—to figure out what happened in there. Could be with her bringing those other two along, we caught a break. When they ID them, the cops might chalk it up to some sort of splinter IRA bullshit, if we’re lucky.”

  “And you’re certain the woman was in there?”

  “I was on the phone with her just before it happened. She was right there, keys in hand, about to open the trunk. They’ll be picking up pieces of her for weeks.”

  Feeling the doubt, but not saying anything. He had underestimated her in the past. It wouldn’t feel done until he knew for sure.

  “So what will you do now, about the others?” Cota said.

  “Give it a break, Emile. I told you. I’m on it.” He stood. “I’m going to go up, get some air.”

  He went up to the third-floor balcony, watched the sun setting over the ocean. He gripped the marble railing, drew in air, breathed out. Steady, he thought. You just need to be calm, careful, see it all through.

  Footsteps behind him, the clack of the cane.

  “You’re troubled,” Cota said.

  Hicks shook his head, didn’t turn.

  Cota came out to stand beside him. “Is it the woman?”

  Hicks looked at him. “Did I say that?”

  “You don’t have to. But I assure you, Randall, when you look back on this six months, or a year, from now, on all that we’ve done, all that we’ve had to do, you’ll understand. Things happened just as they were supposed to. As they were destined to, even. It will all make sense then. We’ve done the right thing, all around. The best thing.”

  “Did I say different?”

  “My main concern now is about the other one, Chance. What will his reaction be? These people sometimes have loyalties, don’t they?”

  “Only to money,” Hicks said. “But we’ll deal with him, one way or another.”

  “We have to wind down this thing we created, tie off the loose ends. Until then, it’s not finished.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “You’ve got a plan?”

  “Always.”

  “I didn’t mean to question your efficiency.”

  “Then don’t.”

  Cota looked off into the twilight, breathed deep.

  “I appreciate what you’ve done for me, Randall,” he said. “I do. The sacrifices you’ve made. The risks you took. I don’t carry that lightly.”

  “Good. Because these other things, tying up these loose ends, it’s going to cost you.”

  “I never thought otherwise. Still, in the long run, worth it all, don’t you think?”

  “For you, maybe.”

  “For both of us, Randall. You’ve more than earned your share of what’s coming from the fruits of this transaction.”

  “Soon, I hope.”

  Cota patted his shoulder, said, “Soon enough,” and went back inside.

  Hicks got out his cell, called Sandoval.

  “Yeah, jefe.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Just left LAX. Got a car, heading your way.”

  “You see the news?”

  “Saw some of it in the airport, waiting for my flight. That was beautiful, man, way you set it up. It do the job?”

  “The first part. There’s more work coming up.”

  “Say the word. I’m your man.”

  “It could be a little more complicated now. The people we’re looking for, they’ll know we’re coming.”

  “Whatever. We’ll get it done.”

  “Those guys of yours you told me about,” Hicks said. “They still available?”

  “If it pays right, yeah. Always.”

  “Call them,” Hicks said.

  TWENTY-ONE

  When Crissa opened the door, Chance winced. “Jesus, you look like hell.”

  “Thanks. Come on in.” She locked the door behind him.

  He was carrying a Nike shoebox under one arm, set it on the bed. “What you wanted.”

  They were in a motel outside Cincinnati. She’d changed rental cars, spent thirty hours on the road, stopping only to eat and catch a couple hours’ sleep parked in a truck stop rest area. She’d gotten in at midnight the night before, slept eleven hours before calling Chance. Her head still throbbed, but most of her hearing had returned.

  “Any problems?” she said.

  “No, it’s clean. Right from the factory. There’s a box of rounds in there, too. Tell me what happened.”

  She opened the shoebox. Inside was a bundle of tissue paper. Beneath it, a Glock 40 with checkered plastic grips, smelling of gun oil. She took it out, ejected the magazine, checked it was full, then worked the slide to make sure the chamber was clear. The action was smooth, easy.

  “Thanks,” she said. She reseated the magazine, put the gun on the nightstand.

  “You’re burnt,” he said.

  She touched the left side of her face, where the hair had been singed
. The skin there still stung. “It’s nothing.”

  “Maybe you should sit down.”

  She sat on the bed. He pulled the room’s single chair over. “It hurt?”

  “Not too much anymore.”

  “Maybe you need to see a doctor.”

  She shook her head. “You talk to Sladden?”

  “Talked to the woman who runs interference for him. Asked him to call me. He hasn’t yet.”

  “He needs to know what happened.”

  “If he doesn’t already. For all I know, he took off when he heard about that business in Nevada. He’s smart. He knows when to pull his head back into the shell.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  “Fill in the details. How did it play out?”

  “C-4, I’d guess. Rigged to the trunk somehow.”

  “Hicks,” he said. “That’s his style. Question is, do they know you’re alive.”

  “If they don’t, they will soon. It’ll buy me a little time, but not much.”

  “Time for what?”

  “To figure out what I’m going to do next.”

  “What’s there to do?” he said. “Christ, you were lucky to walk away as it is. It’s done.”

  “They owe me money. You, too.”

  “I’ll take the loss. Way things went, I want to stay as far away from the fallout as possible. You should, too.”

  “They might not let us.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “That old man is trying to cover his tracks. Maybe he’s panicking, trying to hedge his bets. Get rid of anyone might be a problem.”

  “You think they planned it that way? What happened in the desert? Killing those men?”

  “I don’t think so. But I don’t know for sure.”

  “They might come looking for us, finish it up, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Maybe. I’m sorry for bringing you into all this.”

  “No way you could have known.”

  “Not good enough. Five people died out there. That shouldn’t have happened. I let it get away from me. I fucked up.”

  “You didn’t pull the trigger.”

  “Might as well have. It was my responsibility. I put it together.”

  “Nothing you can do about it now.”

  She got up, went to the window, pushed the curtain aside and looked out. The floodlit motel lot, then the interstate going past, nothing but fields on the other side. Knowing he was right. And knowing it didn’t matter.

  “You need to take some time,” he said. “Think about this. You make a move, do it for the right reasons. I’ll back you, whatever happens. You know that. But think it through first.”

  “Sladden was the only one knew all of us,” she said. “And now you say he might be in the wind. Would he sell us out, if there was enough money involved?”

  “Unlikely. He knows if he did, he’d never get the chance to spend it.”

  “Maybe I should make a trip to Kansas City. See what’s what.”

  “And why would you do that?”

  “If he’s there, maybe I can straighten things out with him. Try to repair some of the damage I caused.”

  “I don’t think he’d like that. Not with all this heat.”

  “I owe him some money, too. That he’ll like. But mostly, I need to know where he stands. If Hicks or Cota contacts him again, I want to know about it.”

  He shook his head slowly. “It went bad. Nature of the beast. We all knew the risks. Keegan and McBride, too. Lay low for a while. I’ll reach out to Sladden again when he surfaces, see what he has to say.”

  “If you can find him. How long a drive to Kansas City from here?”

  “Eight, nine hours, maybe. But if you’re going, I should go with you.”

  “No,” she said. “This is on me. Go home to Lynette. I’ll call you, let you know what I find out, how it went.”

  “You shouldn’t go at all.”

  “I screwed up some things,” she said. “I need to fix them.”

  * * *

  Sandoval said, “Come on in, jefe. Grab yourself a beer. Everybody’s here.”

  The hotel was in Chicago. When Hicks walked into the suite, there were three men sitting around a table, drinking beer. He’d never seen them before, but knew their kind. Close-cropped hair, tight black T-shirts, tattoos. One had a long pink scar on the side of his neck.

  Hicks nodded at them. He was tired from the flight, hadn’t been able to sleep on the plane. Sandoval went into the kitchenette, came out with an open bottle of Dos Equis, handed it to him.

  “Let me do the introductions,” Sandoval said. He nodded at the man with the scar. “This is Banks. We used to call him Cicatriz back in ’Dad. For obvious reasons.”

  Banks nodded at him.

  “And this ugly motherfucker’s Finley.” He was the youngest, dark hair, good-looking, wore a silver cross outside his T-shirt.

  “And Schumann here, he’s my partner. My life partner.”

  “You wish, maricón,” Schumann said. He was blond, arms thick with muscle. His upper left arm was circled by a tattoo of a bandolier of .50-cal ammunition.

  “Have a seat, man,” Sandoval said. Hicks took the fourth chair. Sandoval sat on the arm of a couch. “You got some news for us?”

  “I do,” Hicks said, the three men watching him. “Deposits went into all your accounts today. Twenty K each. Another twenty when we’re done.”

  “Sandy didn’t tell us much,” Schumann said. “Might help if we know some more. Like what exactly it is you’re expecting from us.”

  “The mission’s simple,” Hicks said. “But there’s two parts to it, maybe three, in different locations. I’ll be along for most of it.”

  “Heavy work?” Finley said.

  “Nothing you haven’t done before.”

  “Speaking for myself,” Schumann said. “That could mean a lot of fucking things.”

  “You’ve done more for less, I guarantee you,” Sandoval said. “Everybody’s gettin’ paid. That’s the important part.”

  “What about gear?” Finley said.

  “I’ll have everything you need,” Hicks said. “Transport, too. You don’t need to worry about any of that. I’ll have you covered.”

  “Forty K’s a lot of money,” Banks said. “I figure we’re going to have to earn it.”

  “You will,” Hicks said.

  Sandoval leaned forward between them, raised his bottle. They all did the same, clinked bottlenecks. Hicks touched his to the others’ last.

  “Vive la mort,” Sandoval said, “vive la guerre…”

  “Fuck that mort bullshit,” Schumann said. “We all work, and we all go home.”

  “That’s right,” Hicks said.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Sladden’s limousine company was on Interstate 64 just outside the city. She didn’t know his home address. They’d met only once, a year earlier, when she’d delivered his finder’s fee for the work she’d done in Detroit. In his sixties now, he’d been a pro himself, back in the day, but his last prison bid ten years ago had broken him. Now he stayed on the sidelines, helping put together crews, acting as a go-between, taking his cut. It was safer, more lucrative.

  She slowed as she drove by. The office was a small house with a parking lot in front instead of a lawn. Three Town Cars were parked on an adjoining lot, gleaming under lights. The office windows were dark.

  She’d called the office an hour ago, but no one had answered, and no voice mail had picked up. Gone to ground, she thought, when he’d heard about Nevada.

  She made a U-turn, headed back, then pulled into the lot of a darkened ice cream shop across from the office, killed the lights and engine.

  Her watch said nine P.M. She took out the burner she’d bought that afternoon, tried Sladden’s number again. It buzzed a dozen times. She hit END, called Chance.

  “I’m here,” she said. “Just drove by the office. Might be someone in there, I don’t know. Tried his number again. No answer.”
r />   “Something spooked him.”

  On one side of the house, a driveway led around to a rear yard bordered by trees. From this angle, she could see a dark Lincoln parked there. It hadn’t been visible from the highway.

  “There’s a car,” she said. “But I don’t see anyone moving around inside the house. And all the lights are off, far as I can tell.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Not sure. Go take a look, I think. Maybe something in there tells me where he’s gone. Might find a home address, too, be my next stop.”

  “Drive away.”

  “I can’t. I need to know what the situation is. I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder all the time, wondering if he turned, what he’s thinking.”

  “He’d never rat. Never has, and he’s had plenty of opportunities. And anyway, suppose he did already. How do you know there aren’t half a dozen federal agents inside there with vests and shotguns, waiting for you to come through that door?”

  “I don’t.”

  “My point.”

  A car passed, its headlights briefly illuminating the front of the office, the parked limos.

  “I should have come with you,” he said.

  “No reason to. I just need to talk to him if he’s around here, see where he stands. And if he’s in the wind, I need to know that, too, plan accordingly.”

  “Wait for me. I can be there by morning.”

  “No. Sit tight. I’ll call you when I know something.”

  She shut off the phone, pulled on a pair of leather gloves. Still no sign of movement across the street. She got out, closed the door just short of latching, went around and opened the trunk. The Glock was in a paper bag under the spare tire in the wheel well. She eased the slide back to check the chambered round, then wedged the gun into her belt in the small of her back.

  She zipped up her windbreaker, closed the trunk, waited. Two cars passed. When the highway was clear, she crossed quickly. The limo area would likely have video cameras, so she kept clear of it, went up the driveway. The Lincoln was parked by a side door, nose first against the house. She laid a gloved hand on the hood. It was cold.

  A security light went on above the door, lit up the car. She stepped back out of its glare.

  There were blue and yellow recycling buckets against the house. She took the blue one, upturned it, and slid it toward the side door, then backed into the shadows again, waited. After a few minutes, the security light clicked off again.