by Jeff Abbott
Gooch slipped the hostess a ten-dollar bill and nabbed a large booth in the back of the Pie Shack. Whit sat across from him. The place had the treasured atmosphere of an old neighborhood cafe: mirrored walls, neon art of thick slices of pie on plates, coffee steaming up from a mug at every booth. The huge window by the booth that faced out into the lot was smeared with rain. Thunder sounded far off, a brief rumble.
‘Now we wait,’ Gooch said.
Whit glanced back at the doorway. ‘I shouldn’t sit here, by the window. She could see me. Run.’
‘I doubt she’ll know who you are after thirty years, Whit.’
‘I don’t know.’ He fidgeted in the booth, checked his watch. ‘She’s late.’
‘She’s going to be. At least fifteen minutes. If she’s survived this long working for a crime ring she’s going to be cautious. She’ll put us on the defensive.’
‘She’s not going to talk to me in a busy place.’ The Pie Shack was full. The two closest booths – there were no tables – were both occupied, one by three gay guys rehashing their evening at a local club, the other by a wine-happy quartet of women, laughing at themselves and digging through thick slabs of meringued pies, attempting to sober up with pots of black coffee. Both groups seemed wholly captivated by their own conversations. A riser of plants separated the booths from each other, obscuring views and dulling sounds.
Whit watched a Lincoln Navigator with tinted windows drive through the lot, mist rising from its tires. Then a pickup truck, then a Lexus.
‘Easy, boy,’ Gooch said. ‘She’ll talk to you. She has a nice-sounding voice.’
‘She’s probably more nervous than I am.’
‘She has reason to be. Sit at the counter and keep your back turned to the front door,’ Gooch said. ‘You won’t scare her off that way when she walks in.’ Gooch cocked a finger at him. ‘It’s gonna be okay, buddy.’
‘Thanks.’ Whit took a seat at the long, curving counter. Turned his back to the front door. He ordered a cup of decaf, dosed it with milk, and hunched his shoulders over the curl of steam. On his right a woman in a security-guard uniform plowed through an omelette doused in chili and cheese; she gave him a glance that showed she noticed his bruised face but said nothing. On his left a young man with three earrings ate butter-soaked waffles and read Sports Illustrated.
Whit stirred the milky swirl of his coffee. No mirror was mounted above the bar to let him watch arrivals and departures. But he heard the jingle of the door as it opened and closed, and each time the little bell tinkled he tightened his grip on his coffee cup. He tried not to care. He glanced over at Gooch’s booth; he could barely see the top of Gooch’s crewcutted head over the divider of fake ivy.
He had played out in his mind a thousand times what he would say to his mother. Why did you do it? What did we do wrong? How could you? I hate you. I forgive you.
The day she had left, his four oldest brothers had gone with family friends to see a movie in Corpus Christi. He and Mark, the littlest boys at two and three, had played in the backyard, worn themselves out playing chase while his mother sat and watched. She’d put them down for naps and, while they slept, she put her bags in her car, placed signed divorce papers on the dinette, and left Port Leo forever. He imagined that before she walked out the door she kissed him good-bye, cuddled him, told him she was sorry. She probably had done none of those things.
Sweat tickled the undersides of his arms, the backs of his legs.
The door jingled.
He waited, watched the hostess leading a young couple to a front booth. He relaxed a moment. Then he saw an older woman, her back to him, dressed in a rumpled suit and no raincoat, heading right for Gooch’s back booth.
‘I don’t know you.’ Eve Michaels slid into the booth. She clutched her purse close to her right side. My God, she thought, the guy was a bruiser. Built big and broken-mirror ugly. Hands as big as hubcaps.
‘I’m Gooch.’ He didn’t rise from the booth, wisely not making any move to scare her, but he did offer one of the plus-sized hands. She didn’t shake it. She had her hand on the Beretta, pointed at him inside the purse. She flicked her gaze to her left; the kitchen door was right there. In case she had to shoot and run.
‘That’s a very nice purse, by the way,’ Gooch said.
‘Thank you.’
‘What are you aiming at me? A. 357 Magnum?’ Gooch asked.
The waitress approached, took her order for coffee and lemon pie, and left.
‘Most women put their purse on the side that isn’t by the aisle,’ Gooch said. ‘You’ve got it right next to you, on the aisle, and your hand went in it as soon as you sat down.’
‘Like I said, Mr Gooch, I don’t know you.’
The waitress returned with the coffee, poured Eve a steam-kissed cup, refreshed Gooch’s mug, walked away. The booth of drunken women brayed loud and long at one of their own jokes.
‘Coffee doesn’t make you jittery, right?’ Gooch said. ‘I don’t want you jittery with a gun pointing at me.’ He sounded unconcerned. ‘I’d prefer you put both hands on the table.’
She didn’t. ‘James Powell?’
‘We can talk about him later,’ Gooch said. ‘Why does the mention of your name send Bucks into a tantrum?’
She decided he wasn’t a cop or a Fed. This wasn’t the place they’d pick. Not the words they’d use. ‘He’s a thief and he’s framed me.’
‘What did he steal?’
‘Tell me who you are before I say another word.’
Gooch glanced up and past her shoulder. ‘I’m not from your friends. Paul Bellini can lose every dime he’s got and I won’t care.’
She tightened her grip on the gun. ‘You’re not here about the money?’
‘Money. No. Love,’ Gooch said.
‘I don’t…’ she began and then a young man with a face much like hers slid into the booth next to Gooch.
‘Hi, Ellen,’ he said. His voice was steady. A little husky. Not cold but not exactly friendly.
She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
‘Still pointing the gun? At him or me?’ Gooch asked. ‘Really, Mrs Mosley, it’s time to let it go.’
Eve stared at the young man. Then, slowly, she put both hands on the table.
15
Ten seconds passed and Whit said, ‘Are you trying to figure out which one I am?’
‘You’re Whitman,’ she said. Her voice was a low, gravelly alto, roughened. She coughed once, cleared her throat. Put a hand up to her mouth as if stifling a hiccup, then back down again. Staring at him. Her mouth was open slightly, a little wet. ‘You’re Whitman.’
‘I’m impressed,’ Whit said.
‘I’ll sit up at the counter,’ Gooch said. ‘Let y’all talk.’ Whit rose, Gooch scooted out, Whit sat back down and the whole time she never took her eyes from Whit.
Whit folded his hands on the table.
‘You’ve got a nasty bruise on your face.’ Her voice was flat, not motherly.
‘Got one and gave one back. To your buddy Bucks.’
‘Good for you.’ She swallowed. Outside the rain pelted down harder, a cloudburst flowering, water puddling by the curbs, a laughing trio of Rice students running and screaming through the rain toward their car.
‘I figured,’ Whit said, ‘that when you saw me you were either going to run in shame, tell me you never want to see me or my brothers again, or say you’re sorry.’
She rubbed at her temples. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You didn’t even deny who you are. I guess that was the other option.’
She sipped at her coffee, set the mug down carefully. Her hand shook; she covered it with her other hand. ‘Denial would be pointless. You’ve found me. Congratulations.’
The waitress stopped across from their table, grabbing a fresh pot from the coffee stand, filled a carafe, set it on their table.
‘Don’t you want to know how? Or why?’ Whit asked. He kept his voice quiet.
‘Not right n
ow, Whitman. I’m trying to collect my thoughts. Catch my breath.’ She tried to smile.
‘I go by Whit.’
‘Whit. Sure. Your father was never that crazy about the name Whitman, even though it was from his family.’
‘He grew to like it.’
‘May I touch your hand?’ she asked unexpectedly.
He hesitated. He had not imagined physical contact, but shock and rejection and angry words hitting like missiles. ‘Why?’
‘I would just like to touch you.’
Heat surged in the back of his eyes, in his throat, in his stomach. ‘Okay.’
She put her hand on top of his. Not holding. Touching. Her hands were worn, but her nails were freshly manicured, painted a mild red, and a good-sized diamond glittered on her left hand.
‘Are you glad I found you?’ he asked.
‘I have mixed emotions about it. But not because of you.’
He didn’t understand her comment, so he let it pass, his long-considered game plan of what to say evaporating in the heat of the moment’s reality. ‘I always figured this would happen on Oprah, Unexpected reunions.’
‘We’re more Jerry Springer,’ she said and it made him laugh for a moment.
Her lemon pie arrived; the waitress set it down by their joined hands; Whit said he didn’t need anything, thank you, as she took out her order pad. She left them alone.
‘How is your father?’ Eve asked. ‘Your brothers?’
‘Wow, a sudden bout of caring.’ He knew the words sounded ugly but he couldn’t help himself.
‘What else am I supposed to ask you, Whit?’ she said. ‘Your opinion on the Middle East? Your favorite TV show? Whether you prefer wine or beer?’
‘I’m not much for drinking,’ Whit said. ‘Daddy drank himself sick for years after you left.’
‘Is he still drinking?’
‘No. But he’s dying. Cancer. He has four months, max. That’s why I wanted to find you.’
She digested this news in silence. ‘You sent a man looking for me.’
‘Yes. A private investigator.’
She released a long, wobbly breath. She put her other hand over her eyes but now she took his hand, squeezed his fingers. ‘Fortyish? Dark hair, a little rumpled, looked like a schoolteacher?’
‘Yes. You saw him?’
‘Yes.’ Now she looked at him. ‘I saw him once.’ She reached for her coffee, drank it down. When he said nothing more, she said, ‘I’m truly sorry about your father. And to see you… I’m happy to see you. More than you could ever know, baby. But this is a bad time.’
‘There’s no good time, is there? In your line of work.’
‘Whit.’ Her voice shook. ‘What do you know about me?’
‘You work for Tommy Bellini.’
‘I’m in trouble. I may need to leave town very quickly.’
‘You’re not going to do that.’ He clutched her hand. ‘You’re coming back with me to Port Leo. See my father. Apologize to him before he dies. See my brothers. They’re all well. Happy.’
‘I can’t. I can’t.’
‘You have grandchildren,’ Whit said. ‘Beautiful grandchildren. Four of them. Teddy has three girls, Joe has a little boy.’
Her lips thinned; her eyes filled. ‘I can’t, please don’t ask this of me.’
‘You can. Please.’ Suddenly a truth pierced his heart, a certainty he hadn’t known before. ‘They’ll forgive you. In time. If you get to know them, let them know you.’
‘I would put your family in danger, Whit. People want me dead.’
‘All the more reason to come with me then.’
‘You have no idea of the trouble I’m in.’
‘What if I helped you?’
‘You don’t know what you’re saying.’ She reached for his cheek but then put her hand back atop his. ‘Seeing you means everything to me. But you don’t want this trouble, baby. You can’t handle it.’
‘Don’t call me baby. And I can.’
‘Oh, tough guy because you survived a black eye? These people will cut off your dick. Shove it down your throat. Rape you with a broomstick.’ Eve let the ugly words hang between them. ‘I don’t want you stepping one foot in this world.’
‘I’m not walking away from you. We could call the police, get you protection.’
‘No,’ she said, her voice a strained whisper. ‘It never works well enough. They’d find me, kill me.’ She withdrew her hand. ‘Go have a good life, Whit. Tell your brothers I’m glad they’re happy. I’m sorry for Babe, I truly am.’ She put her purse in her lap, glanced out the window. The showers had lessened in the last minute, the storm taking a breath, and a Lincoln Navigator eased past the restaurant, slowing for a car about to pull out from a parking slot.
‘You changed soaps,’ Whit said. ‘You don’t smell of gardenia any more.’
She froze. ‘What?’
‘That’s really my best memory of you. Gardenia. Your neck always smelled of it.’
She wiped tears from her eyes, her mouth trembled.
‘I need more from you than the smell of soap. I really don’t want you to leave,’ Whit said. ‘If I ask Gooch, he’ll toss you over his shoulder, throw you in his van, and drive you all the way to Port Leo, Ellen.’
‘Eve. No one calls me Ellen.’
‘Eve,’ he said, as though tasting the word. ‘Look at me. I want to know exactly what’s happening. Exactly. Otherwise I’m going to go to the police and-’
The window exploded.
Whit hit the floor in front of the booth, airborne chunks of pie and a gush of hot coffee flying around him, shards of glass bursting in from the barrage of gunfire. His mother screamed. She was cut or shot, trying to get down into the well of the booth, blood streaking her face. Whit grabbed her shoulders and dragged her below the window line into the mess of gunshot pie and pooling coffee and water.
The gunfire stopped.
Screams wailed around them, ranging from full-out shrieks to hiccuping moans of terror. The party girls were facedown on the floor or huddled in the leather womb of their booth, the window by them cracked and webbed. The waitress lay sprawled by Whit, a shattered plate still in her hand, eyes open and still, gray hair dislodged from a bun, her throat a wet wound.
‘Back door,’ Eve said. ‘Run…’
He clutched her head to him, searching for the wound. ‘You’re shot.’
‘No, oh no,’ she said. Her eyes went wide.
Then people started running, a mad stampede out of the restaurant, toward the front doors.
Whit pulled Eve toward the swinging doors of the kitchen and his mind registered Gooch, his gun drawn from a back holster under his jacket, jumping from booth top to booth top, heading for them, and a man, swarthy, rushing the window, jabbing the remaining cracked glass out of his way, swinging the eye of a semiautomatic toward him and Eve.
The gunman paused to smile – a smile that said you’re so fucked – and the gesture cost him because the next bullet fired came from Gooch’s Sig Sauer and the gunman fell back.
‘Back door,’ Eve said again, crawling past the dead waitress, pushing Whit along. He grabbed her, rammed through the swinging doors as the gunman, either hit or not, blasted off another round. Whit, Eve, and Gooch landed on the cool tile of the kitchen, the cooks and bakers mostly gone, one girl babbling into a wall phone. Whit got Eve to her feet, followed two terrified dishwashers barreling toward a fire exit.
As he reached the door, the dense, staccato thrum of gunfire hit pots and pans and countertops. A hard gong sounded, a bullet striking the exit door north of his head. Gooch returned fire and Whit shoved Eve out the door. The kitchen staff scrambled through the parking lot, running, yelling in Spanish.
Gooch’s van was parked near the rear of the lot and Whit steered Eve toward it. He glanced back. Gooch had taken cover near a Dumpster, gun leveled at the back door. Waiting.
More shooting inside. Whit pushed Eve through a line of cars, putting vehicles between them
and the door. ‘Gooch!’ he screamed. ‘Get out, come on…’
The gunman came out the door, holding the young woman who’d been on the wall phone as a human shield. Gooch didn’t lower his gun.
The cops will be here in thirty seconds,’ Gooch called. ‘Let her go.’
‘We want Eve!’
Eve and Whit ducked down by a red pickup truck. Her hand tightened on his.
‘You hit Eve, man,’ Gooch called, ‘and she’s bleeding bad.’ From his vantage point the gunman couldn’t see if Eve was with him or not. In the distance police sirens began to shriek in their approach.
Then a Lincoln Navigator wheeled around the restaurant. The gunman shoved the young woman to the pavement and dashed toward the car.
He made it three steps and Gooch gave him a bullet for each. He skittered a little dance, collapsing before the open door of the Navigator. The SUV sped onto Kirby, door still open, rumbled into a shopping center parking lot and hard-turned onto a side street.
The girl ran back into the restaurant, and Gooch sprinted from the Dumpster toward them.
‘Go,’ he yelled. ‘Now.’
‘The guy…’
‘He’s dead, Whit. We got to get out of here.’
‘We can’t leave,’ Whit started. ‘This is a crime scene… that waitress is dead…’
‘We have to.’
‘But…’ Whit almost said I’m a judge, I can’t do this, but if his mother heard that, she’d take off running herself.
‘You want the cops to take in your mom? Because they will when they find out her connection to this,’ Gooch said. ‘Find her, lose her, all in short order.’
Whit pulled Eve into the back of the van with him and Gooch powered up the engine, tore out the back of the parking lot onto a feeder street that ran parallel to Kirby, vanishing with a right into a residential neighborhood, and was two blocks away by the time the police cars and ambulances tore into the lot, red and blue lights making the broken windows glitter like diamonds.
16
‘Hospital,’ Whit ordered Gooch. ‘Now.’
‘No,’ Eve said. ‘I’m not hurt, Whit. I’m okay.’
‘No hospital,’ Gooch said. ‘At least for now.’
