That place, the Silver Dollar, was changing, full of punks; he couldn’t go back there. So he was in this business and it was like waking up with the ugly woman and not knowing where he was, only that he had to find his way out.
His brothers would have something to say about Donna.
Last night Richie kept saying, “Go on, go in there and say something to her. Make her feel good. Give her a little pat on the ass.” Okay, so he went in there. She seemed nervous with him watching her getting dinner ready and he could see she was trying to act natural. She had perfume on that smelled pretty good. He liked her body, the way it showed in tight pants and sweater. She asked him if he wanted anything and he said, “If you could be any kind of bird there is, what kind would you be?” She looked at him funny. He told her how his grandmother was going to turn him into an owl one time and what she could make seagulls do. He watched Donna relax and become interested, Donna saying, “No way,” her glasses shining in the overhead light when he told her about the seagulls. Armand believed there was a certain type of woman who wore glasses you could tell liked sex a lot. He saw Donna as one of them. He didn’t pat her on the butt; he asked her again what kind of bird she’d want to be. Donna looked at him and said she would have to give that some thought. He was getting along pretty good with her until Richie came into the kitchen saying, “Hey, what’s going on here?”
Richie a problem since becoming the driver. Richie breaking the silence now.
“We’re almost there, Bird.”
Armand, alert as they passed fields and woods on both sides of the road, said, “Slow down. Watch for where you turn in.”
Yesterday they had followed a pair of ruts that tracked from the blacktop to a deserted, falling-down farmhouse, a patch of woods separating it from the Colson property.
Richie drove past it.
Armand straightened on the seat. “Where you going?”
“I want to look at the house.”
There it was, a barn-type roof and dormers coming into view, a big comfortable-looking house sitting among shrubs and old trees. The ironworker’s truck was in the drive, by the back porch. The door to the house stood open.
“Jesus Christ, Bird, the guy’s home.”
“Tell me where you’re going.”
“I’m gonna turn around and come back, pull up right in front. Bang in there, man.”
“You want to do it a different way now,” Armand said. “Give them a chance to see us coming.”
“Don’t sweat it,” Richie said, U-turning, creeping the van back toward the house. “I want the guy, okay? I’m gonna use a shotgun on him. I never did anybody with a shotgun before. You?”
Armand didn’t answer. He was looking past Richie at the house, counting eight columns on the high front porch, thinking that was a lot of columns to hold up the roof, thinking that after this was done he was going to have to shoot Richie in the head, though he would rather do it before, right now.
Dump him out on the front lawn. They were parked off the road now by the trees. Richie, close to him, turned to reach behind the seats for one of the loaded shotguns.
“You ready?”
Armand opened the door and stepped out of the van. Yes, he was ready. He closed the door and put his right hand in the pocket of the hunting coat to grip his pistol. No, he had never killed anyone with a shotgun. What would be the purpose of using one? This guy thought he was in the movies. Armand started around the front of the van.
In the same moment, looking up, he saw the pickup truck through the shrubs backing out of the drive, fast, the rear end turning this way, brake lights popping on and now the truck was taking off in the direction they had come. Armand stepped back, opened the door. Richie was hunched over, starting the van. He glanced at Armand saying, “I got him. You get the woman.”
Armand was shaking his head no, reaching up to pull himself in, and the van jumped away from him. He heard Richie saying it again, “I got him,” taking off after the ironworker’s pickup.
Carmen told her mom she was getting ready to fix kielbasa and cabbage for dinner, one of Wayne’s favorites. Her mom said, “Oh, is he home for a change? Let me say hello to the big guy.” Carmen told her they’d run out of beer and she’d forgotten to pick some up at the A & P, so Wayne had run out to get some. Her mom said, “Uh-huh,” and told Carmen that kielbasa and cabbage was a good last-minute kind of dinner, wasn’t it, you could throw together whenever the man of the house decided to come home. Carmen, looking out the window over the sink, said, “Mom?” Her mom was saying she fried her kielbasa first, then put it in with the cabbage to steam for about twenty minutes and served it with mustard pickles. Carmen said, “Mom, I’ll call you right back,” and hung up.
The heavyset man Wayne thought was an Indian had come up the drive and was standing opposite the porch. Carmen knew him, even in that hunting outfit, the man facing the door to the kitchen, now gazing up at the house.
Wayne had come home and run out again, leaving the door open. The shotgun he’d loaded and placed next to the door last night was still there, leaning against the wall. But the door was on the other side of the counter from where Carmen stood at the sink.
She was thinking that if she had remembered to pick up the beer, or if Wayne had come home earlier—but he wasn’t home and that’s why he’d placed the gun by the door, for a time like this, just in case, the Remington she’d fired at least a dozen times in the past five years, though never at anything living. Wayne had said she was pretty good with it. He’d throw cans in the air . . .
The heavyset man was approaching the steps, his hands in the side pockets of his hunting coat. It was too small for him. So was the cap, sitting on his forehead, the peak down close to his eyes.
She didn’t want him to come up on the porch. If he did—she didn’t think closing the door and locking it would keep him out of the house.
So Carmen walked around the counter and watched his head raise, the man seeing her now in the doorway. She picked up the Remington, pushed the safety off and let him see the shotgun too, held in her right hand pointed down, as she stepped out on the porch.
He touched the brim of his cap and seemed to smile. “You going hunting, Miss?”
Carmen didn’t answer.
“I was looking for your husband, have a talk with him.”
“He’s not home.”
“I know that. But see, I can come in and wait for him.” He shrugged, looking toward the road, then at Carmen again, his face raised with the peaked cap in his eyes. He said, “Okay?” and started to mount the steps.
Carmen half-turned, raising the shotgun in both hands, the stock under her arm.
It stopped him. He frowned and seemed surprised. “Why you pointing that at me?”
“What do you want?”
“I told you, I want to talk to your husband. Why don’t you and I go in the house, wait for him?”
“You’d better leave,” Carmen said. “I mean it. Right now.”
“Or what? You gonna shoot me? That what you do, you shoot people?”
It made her mad, the way he said it, and she didn’t answer.
She was holding a shotgun loaded with Magnum slugs, finger curled around the trigger. But the gun was only a threat if she was willing to use it. The man seemed at ease, not believing she would, and that made her mad. She was scared to death of him. She didn’t want him to move, come up the steps. But if he did she would have to shoot. He looked out at the road again and up at the house and then at her, in no hurry. It was as though he was saying, This is nothing, I’ll come up the steps if I want, do anything I want . . .
He moved to come up the steps and Carmen pulled the trigger and saw his face change, his eyes pop open, in that shattering sound of the gun firing, the shot going past his head. She pumped the gun and held it on him, the man bringing both hands up as he backed away saying, “Okay, take it easy, ‘ey? You want me to leave? Okay, Miss, I’m going.”
He kept looking back as
he moved off, not out to the road but across the drive and the side yard toward the chickenhouse, taking his time and looking back as if to see what she thought of it. Carmen didn’t like it at all. She wanted him to leave, not lurk around out there. That’s what he was doing now, leaning against the front corner of the chickenhouse, watching her from about fifty yards away.
Carmen raised the stock to her shoulder and put the slug-barrel sights on the slat boards of the low structure, close to the man’s head. He didn’t move, telling her again he didn’t believe she would shoot him, and for a moment she felt an awful urge to slide the barrel over, center it on him. Carmen let the moment pass. She fired, pumped the gun in that sound splitting the air, raised it to fire again and he was gone.
What Richie had in mind was to come up on the guy’s truck all of a sudden, pull out like he was going to pass, holding the shotgun with the tip of the barrel resting on the passenger-side windowsill, the window open, and as he came even with the guy squeeze one off, blow him right out of his truck. Except once he thought of it they were getting near Algonac and cars were coming the other way, so he couldn’t pull out. By the time there was a chance to, the guy put his left blinker on and turned into a 7-Eleven.
Comes home and the little woman sends him to the store.
Richie liked the idea, the guy thinking he was mean but actually was pussy-whipped. Yes, dear. Whatever you say, dear. Donna asked him to go to the store one time. He’d said to her, “Hey, you start on me with that kinda shit, I’m gone.” They didn’t respect you if you did too much for them. He’d have to remember to tell Bird that, the Bird not knowing shit about women. Which was weird, a man his age. But then the Bird was Indian and they were a weird bunch anyway, believing you could get turned into a fucking owl. Donna didn’t know what kind of bird she’d be. Richie believed he’d be an eagle. Shit, be the best.
He had turned into the empty parking area in front of the store, pulled up right next to the guy’s truck facing the plateglass windows covered with bargain signs and watched him go in, the guy wearing a jacket that said IRONWORKERS on the back. Like he was proud of it. Look at me, I’m a fucking ironworker, man. Richie’s idea was to give the ironworker something to look at when he came out, the muzzle of a pump gun. Then began to think if he needed anything. Yeah, sunglasses; he’d misplaced his shades somewhere. He wondered if he’d have time to run in and get a pair, come back out . . .
Or do the job in there, Richie thought. What’s the difference? It even gave him another idea. Do more than the job. Make it a double feature.
He walked into the store carrying the shotgun down at his side. He didn’t see the ironworker. The two checkout counters were right in front of him, a girl in there between them, chewing gum as she looked up at him and then down again, not seeming too interested. She was reading a magazine. Richie noticed her hair looked oily. He didn’t see the ironworker anywhere.
Then did see him, way down at the end of an aisle, two six-packs under his arm, picking up a bag of potato chips.
The trick now was to do both almost at once. Richie raised the shotgun high enough to aim it at the girl and saw her drop the magazine as he said, “This’s your big day, honey. Empty out that cash drawer for me in a paper bag and set it on the counter. And some gum. Gimme a few packs of that bubble gum, too.” The girl was about eighteen, not too good-looking, dark, maybe an Indian. When she didn’t move he said, “Do it,” and she jumped and got busy. He swung the shotgun at the aisle then, yelled out, “Hey!” and saw the ironworker look this way at him, which was the idea, get him looking. But shit, as he fired and pumped and fired, the buckshot blowing hell out of the potato-chip rack and the soda pop on the far wall, the ironworker disappeared. Richie stepped to the next aisle, saw him moving and fired and pumped and fired again; man, raking the shelves, cans flying, bottles busting, but no ironworker lying there. Shit, missed again. Saw him going for a door, the six-packs still under his arm, the ironworker in the doorway as Richie fired his last round and shot out the glass part of the door as it swung closed. Shit. The guy could be out the back by now. Richie was pretty sure the ironworker had seen enough of him to know who he was. That was better than nothing. Keep the guy jumpy, looking over his shoulder, and get him some other time. There was too much to stand here and think about right now. Richie turned to the girl. He laid the shotgun on the counter and picked up the paper bag sitting there.
“This everything?”
She nodded, holding her hands in front of her, sort of hunched in with her head bent, looking down at the floor.
“Are you Indian?”
The girl shook her head.
“You look Indian. You ought to use something on your hair. You know what I mean? A shampoo with a conditioner in it. Give it some body.”
Man, she sure looked Indian. Thinking it made him think of the Bird. Which got him thinking along another line, staring at this girl. He said to her, “Look at me.”
She raised her head but couldn’t seem to fix her eyes on him, they kept jumping around.
“You sure you’re not Indian?”
She was biting on her lip as she shook her head, not chewing her gum now.
Richie said, “Well, it don’t matter.” He reached behind him, brought out his nickel-plate .38 and shot the girl square in the forehead.
* * *
Now, that was exciting, when it happened spur of the moment. The way the Bird worked it, that’s what it seemed like, work, like a job. And thought, Jesus Christ, the Bird. Richie turned the van around in Algonac and headed back out into the country. All the excitement, he forgot he had to pick up the Indian.
What it did was settle his mind, made him realize he’d get another crack at the ironworker. If the Bird was at the guy’s house and the guy’s truck was still at the 7-Eleven . . . Tell the Bird it was a kick, man, using a shotgun. The Bird would say yeah, but you missed. And he’d tell the Bird not to sweat it, the guy would be coming home soon. Tell the Bird no, there aren’t any witnesses, I done what you told me. Hand him the take from the holdup. Oh, here, I almost forgot. You proud of me? See, I went in there to get some sunglasses, account of I misplaced the ones I had. I been trying to remember . . .
It was quiet out here, starting to get dark. Richie slowed down, aware that he was coming up on the ironworker’s house, but still in his mind thinking about those goddamn sunglasses, the last time he’d worn them—and was startled, Jesus Christ, to see the Bird appear at the side of the road, coming out of the brush with his arm raised. Richie was past him by the time he braked to a hard stop. The Bird came up to the van in a hurry. He got in saying, “Let’s go. Get out of here.”
Richie didn’t say anything quite yet. He waited till they were up the road, in sight of the highway they’d take to Marine City. All the things he was going to tell the Bird were forgotten. What he finally said was, “Shit, I remember where I lost my fucking sunglasses.”
The Bird sat there in his own mind for a while. Finally, all he said was, “This ought to be good.”
9
* * *
A STATE POLICE INVESTIGATOR told the Colsons they would be hearing from the FBI. With suspicion of criminal activity across a border it had become a federal case.
Wayne said, “You mean you suspect these two guys are criminals? We’re moving right along, aren’t we?”
After two more days of police from various jurisdictions marching in and out, police cars in the drive, in the yard, police cars creeping by at night flashing high-beam spots on the house, lighting up their bedroom, Wayne stood on the side porch to deliver a speech. He said:
“I got a speeding ticket out at Detroit Metro one time, forty in a twenty-five zone, over there to pick up my wife coming back from visiting her dad, in Florida. It made me think, if you can get stopped for driving too fast at an airport, if the traffic is that light, it doesn’t say much for our economy, does it? But that’s not the point I want to make. The point is, it’s the only time I’ve ever bee
n stopped in Michigan for a moving violation. Ohio’s a different story. That drive down I–Seventy-five is so goddamn boring you can’t get through it fast enough. But soon as you try, they nail you, there’s Smokey with his goddamn hat on, every bit as serious as you guys. What I’m leading up to, I want you to understand I’ve never been arrested or had any trouble with police. I’ve never swung at a cop, I’ve never talked back to one, even in Ohio, till the other day, over at the real estate office. I said why don’t you go over to Walpole and find out who’s driving an ’86 Cadillac. If you did, you’d have caught the two guys and Lionel Adam would be alive. But what you guys’d rather do is sit around and drink our coffee and ask the same goddamn questions over and over. How many times you gonna ask me if I saw both guys at the Seven-Eleven? How could I if one of them was here? How many times you gonna ask me what the guy was driving after I told you I didn’t see his car? Or did I actually see him shoot the girl? Why is there any question who did it? Who else could have? How many times you gonna go look at that bullethole in the chickenhouse? My wife told you she fired the shot and has a sore shoulder to prove it. She told you she wasn’t trying to hit him and you act like you don’t believe it. Not one of you has said nice going or it was a brave thing my wife did. Had she shot the son of a bitch would you arrest her for it? I don’t see where you guys are doing a goddamn thing besides drink coffee and bump into each other. You sure as hell don’t communicate among your different groups or we wouldn’t be getting the same goddamn questions over and over.”
Killshot Page 9
