“You’re a slick guy, Bird, you know it? How’d you work that?”
“How do I do something like this, I make a phone call,” Armand said. “It’s what I don’t do is the difference, what you have to learn. I don’t leave my sunglasses someplace, I don’t leave my fingerprints, I don’t do nothing ‘less I work it out first and I’m sure.” He saw Donna in the hall, a glimpse of her in the pink robe going from the bathroom to the bedroom. “Then all you have to do,” Armand said, “is walk in, walk out.”
It was half-past nine. Carmen and Wayne were sitting in the living room with lamps turned on talking about a thirty-four-year-old wanted criminal named Richie Nix, referring to a “detainer list” the FBI man had shown them: the detainers indicating crimes he was wanted for in several different states, armed robbery and capital murder.
“What I can’t figure out,” Wayne said, “he’s been doing this for, what, about twenty years. He was in the Wayne County Youth Home when he was fifteen, a few years later he robs a package store in Florida, does something else in Georgia, goes to prison . . .”
Wayne stopped as a spotlight hit both windows from outside and flashed again in the foyer, on the oval glass panel in the front door. There was a silence. Wayne got up from the sofa, walked to a window and looked out.
“They’re about five minutes late.”
Carmen sat in a rocking chair they’d bought unfinished in Kentucky one winter, coming back from Florida. She had stained the chair with a clear varnish and made an olive green pad for it.
“Why get worked up? They’re doing their job.”
“What? Shining spots on the windows?”
She watched him walk back to the sofa, fall into it and stick out his blue-jean legs, the heels of his work shoes resting in the rag carpeting. They had furnished the place without much thought, farmhouse traditional; Carmen was tired of it.
“You realize we’re actually sitting here talking without the TV on? We haven’t done this since you watched me strip the woodwork.”
It reminded her again, she wanted to do something with the living room, liven it up. Keep the rocker, paint it a bright color, but get rid of that old green plaid sofa, and the duck prints her mom had given them as a combined present, housewarming and Wayne’s birthday, a month late. Her gaze moved to Wayne. She liked to look at him and wait for him to become aware of it. Their eyes would meet and they’d see how long they could stare at each other without smiling—until Carmen would do something like running the tip of her tongue over her lips or she might stick a finger in her nose.
“You want to go to bed?”
He looked over. “It’s early.”
They stared for a moment. He said, “We haven’t done much making out lately, have we?”
“It’s been days. Not even hugs and kisses,” Carmen said. The way he shook his head she could tell he was thinking of something else. “What is it you can’t figure out? You started to say something about Richie Nix, his record, he went to prison . . .”
“That’s right—three times and they let him out,” Wayne said, getting back into it. “He’s in a federal prison, he sees a guy stabbed to death, he testifies at the guy’s trial that did it and they put him in the Witness Protection Program.”
“It was his cellmate,” Carmen said, “the one that was murdered. I meant to ask Scallen about that—you notice he called it the Witness Security Program.” She saw Wayne anxious for her to finish. “But that’s beside the point.”
“I don’t know,” Wayne said. “The thing I don’t understand, here he’s supposed to be in prison for something like twenty years, am I right?”
“He was already there a few years when it happened.”
“Yeah, a few. Now they say they have to protect him, in case the guy’s buddies he testified against tried to get him. So they put him in the witness program and let him out. How can they do that?”
Carmen paused, seeing the FBI man in the kitchen talking quietly to them about a man who robbed and killed and another who was paid to kill. “I don’t think he said Richie got out, not right away. No, that’s when he was transferred to Huron Valley. He was in the witness program while he was in prison, I think three more years, and then for a little while after, till he committed a crime.” She had to add, “And that disqualified him. So all these detainers Scallen showed us, the crimes Richie Nix is wanted for now, are things he did in the last couple of years.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Wayne said. “They let him out and he starts killing people. He gets a job through a friend, what does he do? He shoots the guy and takes off.”
“There was one before his friend,” Carmen said, “another one he shot, in Detroit.”
“Yeah, he gets out—he’s pulling robberies and all of a sudden he’s killing people, too. You go down the detainer list, robbed a package store in Dayton, Ohio, shot and killed the store employee. All those others, in Ohio, Indiana, Kentucky, shot and killed store employee, every one of them. He finds out from Lionel where we live—that must’ve been what happened—and shoots him three times. He didn’t have to kill him. The girl in the store, she didn’t have a gun or anything, she’s a seventeen-year-old girl. He takes the money and shoots her in the head. Why does a guy like that all of a sudden start killing people?”
“Why is he after us?” Carmen said. “If we knew that . . . I mean what does he stand to gain?”
“I think getting thrown out a second-story window has something to do with it,” Wayne said, “though he doesn’t seem to need a reason to shoot people. I guess it’s just the way he is. Or right now he’s working for the Indian and does whatever he’s told. From what Scallen said, the Indian’s the one to look out for. I’ve thought that all along. When I was sitting at Nelson’s desk watching him, I think about it now, he didn’t touch a thing. They found Richie Nix’s fingerprints all over the place, but not the Indian’s. We think Richie’s bad but, Jesus, what about Armand, the things he’s done?”
“There sure isn’t much privacy around here,” Donna said, “having two men in the house.” She was sitting on the side of her bed in her pink chenille robe, rolling up a pair of sheer black panty hose to stick her toes in, the nails painted an orange-red.
Armand stood in the bedroom doorway watching her.
There were furry stuffed animals on Donna’s bed, on the purple-red-and-yellow chenille spread done in a big peacock design, and a picture on the wall, over the head of the bed, a color portrait painted on black velvet that Armand believed was supposed to be Elvis Presley. He was pretty sure that’s who it was because Donna had a rack of Elvis Presley records, that Elvis Presley doll dressed in the white jumpsuit and Elvis Presley plates out in the kitchen. Eat down through Donna’s TV Salisbury steak and there was Elvis Presley looking at you.
“You want privacy,” Armand said to her, “you close the door. But I don’t think it’s what you want.” He could see her thighs where the pink robe was open, pure white thighs. “You know what else I think? You don’t have nothing on under your robe.”
“That’s why I happen to be getting dressed,” Donna said, “if you don’t mind. What’re you, still hungry?”
“Not now. Maybe I will be later.”
“I like to see a man enjoy his food. Richie hardly picks at his.”
She raised her foot to the edge of the bed, ready to slip her toes into the panty hose she held rolled up. Now he could see the underneath part of her thigh and a dark place that could be only darkness or a dark place that was part of her. He said, “You’ve been getting dressed for two hours, parading around here. I think you been waiting for Richie to leave.”
Donna worked her foot into the panty hose before looking up at him. “Dick comes back, like he might’ve forgot something? You’re in big trouble.”
Calling him Dick. Armand almost smiled. “What do you think he’d do, shoot me?” Armand moved into the room toward the bed and Donna raised her face, stretching her skinny white neck, her eyes un
focused and naked-looking without the glasses, eyebrows darker than her hair, that pile of deep gold, all of it sprayed hard as a rock, shining in the light.
Armand said, “I think you like guys that shoot people, guys that pack a gun. I got one. You like to see my gun?”
“What choice do I have,” Donna said. Next thing, Armand heard her sigh and saw her shoulders go slack for a moment as she said, “Well, there’s nothing I can do, you’re way bigger than I am.” Next thing, she was taking off the robe, pulling the panty hose from her foot and letting them fall on the floor. Lying back on the peacock spread, looking up at him with those cockeyed naked eyes, Donna said, “I guess you’re gonna do whatever you want and there’s no way on earth I can stop you.” She paused a moment, still looking at him, and said, “You want to turn the light out or leave it on?”
Earlier in the day Carmen had said, “I’ve probably done things that made you mad. Maybe once or twice in the past twenty years? But you never once have raised your voice to me, ever. I think about it, I say to myself, well, if he can walk a ten-inch beam way up on a structure, he has control of his feelings, he’s not the type to get emotional. But then out on the porch yelling at the police you’re a completely different person.”
Wayne said, “On the porch? The porch is only five feet off the ground. I’ll tap-dance on the porch if I feel like it. I’ll do any goddamn thing I want on the porch.”
Carmen tried to picture that, Wayne taking out his anger on those old gray-painted boards, stomping on them, yelling—that’s what it was, his anger and frustration coming out, but it still surprised her. Now every few minutes he’d get up from the sofa and go to the window, keeping track of the police surveillance.
“That was the township cops. They’re the ones light up the whole goddamn house.” He stood with his back to Carmen, looking out at the night.
She wished he’d sit down.
“You going to work tomorrow?”
“Not till they get those guys.”
“We could go away.”
“Where?”
“Stay with Mom, she’s got plenty of room.”
That turned him around.
“I’m kidding,” Carmen said, “relax.” She watched him, for a moment there on the edge of panic, move to the sofa and slump into it. “Don’t you know when I’m kidding?”
“I’d become alcoholic in about two days,” Wayne said, “living with her. Maybe one day.”
“She loves you too.” Carmen rocked back and forth in the Kentucky rocking chair. “You want to turn on the news?”
Wayne glanced at his watch. “It’s not on yet.”
“You want to know what I don’t understand?”
“When you kid,” Wayne said, “it’s supposed to be funny. That’s the whole idea.”
Carmen rocked some more, thinking about what she wanted to say. After about a minute she said, “There’s a lot I don’t understand. But you know what bothers me?”
This time Wayne said, “What?”
“The FBI thinks the Mafia’s behind the extortion. Or might be, ’cause it’s the kind of thing they do. Or they’d like to believe the Mafia’s behind it. I said to the FBI man, ‘But Armand’s from Toronto. Are we talking about their Mafia or ours?’ “
“He thought you were being funny,” Wayne said, “calling them ours.”
Carmen paused, looking at him, but let it go.
“Anyway, he said it could be either one. What they have for sure is a suspect known to work for the Toronto Mafia driving a car that’s registered to a company they know is a front for organized crime. Armand was here last Friday, the same day a man, also known to be a member of the Toronto Mafia, was shot and killed in a Detroit hotel, with a young girl. They don’t know who she is but they think Armand did it because . . . I guess because he was here and it’s what he does. Or they want to believe he did it. And they want us to realize that if it’s the Mafia, then we have more to worry about than just the two guys finding us. Is that the way you see it?”
Wayne nodded. “I guess.”
Carmen rocked some more, thinking, then stopped.
“Okay, I asked if it seemed likely the Mafia would come to Algonac to pick on a real estate company. Scallen said it wasn’t unlikely. They could come here duck hunting, see a company that’s making a lot of money, not much police protection in the area . . . Okay, then he said it was possible Armand worked it out on his own, since he no doubt has the experience. I said, ‘But he didn’t arrive till last Friday. Someone called Nelson Davies before that, to demand the money.’ Scallen says yes, and it was probably Richie Nix. But extortion isn’t his kind of crime, so they think he was hired to do it, by Armand. Just as they think Richie was told by Armand to kill Lionel. They found Richie’s fingerprints on Lionel’s boat, but not Armand’s. But killing the girl in the store, they think Richie must’ve done on his own. Scallen said something about his pattern, he robs, he kills. But Armand—he said the fact that Armand wasn’t seen before last Friday doesn’t mean he wasn’t here.”
Carmen paused and Wayne said, “Yeah . . . ?”
“That’s the part that bothers me.”
“What part?”
“They talked to people on Walpole Island who said Armand came to visit his grandmother. That seems pretty weird, a man who kills for a living comes all the way from Toronto to visit his grandmother?”
“It’s not that far.”
“That’s not what I mean”—Carmen shaking her head—“I’m thinking if he was in Detroit anyway, last Friday . . . He didn’t even know the grandmother had died, he stopped by.” Carmen made a face, frowning. “I just have a feeling he wasn’t around here before Friday, or someone would’ve seen him, his car. But Richie Nix was here, he’s the one who called Nelson. Ten thousand dollars or I’ll kill you—and that’s who I think started the whole thing. Richie. Why not?”
Wayne shrugged, not appearing to give it much thought. “What difference does it make who started it? We’re deep in it either way.”
“Well, you think Armand’s the one to look out for,” Carmen said. “I think Richie’s a lot scarier than Armand.” After a moment she said, “I can just see his handwriting. I’ll bet it’s a mess, full of things that show poor mental health.”
Richie had crept up on the gas station, let the van coast into the drive with the passenger-side window down, shotgun ready, and found the place closed for the night. Dark except for a low-watt light in the front part. Shit. He was going to do this one for the Bird. Hack off some of the gas-station guy’s hair, if he had any under that hunting cap, and bring it back. See, Bird? This’s how you do it. He could still mess the place up, blow out the plate-glass window. Or do it on the way back, with the new car. He could see the Bird shaking his head as he told him, recalled the Bird tapping the side of his head with a finger and then his forehead and Richie thought, Hey, shit. All of a sudden having a better idea than shooting up a gas station.
It took him ten minutes to run down the river road almost to Algonac before cutting inland through a residential part, slowed down coming to the 7-Eleven, open and doing business, braked—it was an idea—and took off again grinning. The Bird’d have a shit fit. “You went back there?” The Bird not appreciating spur-of-the-moment moves. No sense of humor, never smiled or nothing.
The road the Colsons lived on was becoming familiar, even in the dark of night with only a half-assed moon, he’d run it enough times. Headlights were coming at him and he slowed to fifty; getting close anyway. It was a cop car. Richie didn’t see what kind, either county or township; it wasn’t state, all dark blue. And there coming up was the house. There was the ironworker’s pickup in the drive, no other cars around, least that he could see. Lights on in a couple of downstairs front windows, probably the living room. Richie drove past, followed a bend in the road, went up about a hundred yards and took his time U-turning, thinking it didn’t look like any cops were around. Thinking yeah, but they could be hiding. Thinking, Hey, a
re you pussy or what? Went back around the bend and stopped in the road in front of the house.
Richie aimed the shotgun out his side of the van, fired at one of the lit-up windows and heard glass shatter as he pumped, aimed, fired at the other one, blew it out, threw the shotgun behind him inside the van and took off, tires screaming. He might not’ve hit anybody, but at least they’d know the truth of that old saying, shit happens. When you least expect, too.
10
* * *
THE WALKING BOSS on the One-Fifty Jefferson project was reading blueprints in the front part of the steel-company trailer. He didn’t move or look up when the raising-gang foreman came in and said, “We got a man froze-up.”
The walking boss, still bent over the print board, said, “Shit. Who is it?”
“Colson.”
Now the walking boss straightened in a hurry, turned to the raising-gang foreman standing there in his tan coveralls and hard hat on backward, said, “You’re kidding me,” and went over to the big window facing the job.
“Where is he?”
“Up on top. That far section toward the river. See?”
They both gazed up at the structure, at the network of columns and beams and girders, a tower crane rising out of the center, the building skeleton exposed, no outside curtain walls up yet, but dark in there with every other level floored to ten, open iron above that.
“I see him,” the walking boss said.
A figure on the crossbar of a goalpost, that’s what it looked like. Way up on the highest section, standing on a girder between two columns that stuck up against the sky.
“He’s not moving.”
“That’s what I’m telling you,” the raising-gang foreman said. “He’s froze-up.”
“Wayne never froze in his life.”
“Well, he’s been sitting there, I don’t know how long.”
“He’s standing now.”
Killshot Page 11
