Cold Shot to the Heart Page 2

  TWO

  The motel was a Days Inn just off the highway, the lot almost full. Snow blew past the pole lights. She checked in as Roberta Summersfield, used the credit card she had in that name.

  The room was on the second floor. She carried her bags up and two minutes later was in the shower, her clothes strewn on the bathroom floor. The water grew hot quickly, and she ducked under the shower head to let the stream play against the knotted muscles of her neck. The heat began to loosen her shoulders, the tightness in her scalp.

  When she was done, she toweled off, then dressed in turtleneck sweater and jeans. She put the bag with the money up on a shelf in the closet.

  Twenty minutes later, she was sitting at the hotel bar, a glass of red wine and the remains of a hamburger in front of her. It was the first she’d eaten since that morning.

  At a table to her left were three businessmen in their forties—suit jackets, loosened ties, out of shape. They looked over every few minutes, and she knew they were talking about her. She also knew none of them would have the courage to approach her. It would save her the trouble of shutting them down if they did.

  There was a wide-screen TV above the bar, a laugh-tracked sitcom she didn’t know. The barmaid took her plate, pointed to her empty wineglass. Crissa said, “Please,” and the barmaid took a new glass from the overhead rack, poured from the bottle.

  At ten, the news came on. The lead story was the storm, but five minutes later they got to the robbery. A young female reporter stood outside the darkened storefront, bathed in the bright light of the TV camera, snow flitting past, yellow police tape behind her.

  Why bother sending someone out there now? Crissa thought. It’s all over with.

  When the reporter said the robbers had escaped with two hundred thousand in cash, Crissa said, “Bullshit.”

  The barmaid turned to her. “Excuse me, honey?”

  Crissa shook her head. The barmaid looked back at the TV. They’d moved on to sports.

  Everyone’s scamming, Crissa thought. One way or another. Like Wayne used to say: Nothing’s on the level when the world is round.

  She was feeling the wine, the aftermath of the day’s adrenaline rush, the tension of the week. The way it goes sometimes, she’d told Smitty, and that was true, but it didn’t make her feel any better. Thirty-one five wasn’t worth the preparation they’d put into it, the risks they’d taken. It would barely pay her rent for the year. She would put aside part of it anyway, for a trip somewhere warm. Tortola, maybe, or Green Turtle Cay in the Abacos. A Christmas present to herself.

  It had become a pattern. A few months of normalcy, relaxation. Then the money at hand would start to run low around the same time she began to get bored. She’d wait for word, a call from Kansas City or St. Louis or Phoenix or a dozen other cities. She’d hear what they had to say. Then, more often than not, she’d be working again—and the cycle would start over. It didn’t make for much of a future, she knew. But for now it was the only life she could stand to live.

  * * *

  It was late in the afternoon when she reached New Jersey. She’d called the car service en route, so when she returned the Taurus at the rental agency in Newark, the Town Car was waiting. The Sikh driver loaded her bags in the trunk, asked the address, didn’t speak again for the rest of the ride.

  The sky was gray and overcast, spitting snow, as they crossed the George Washington Bridge, the city spread out before them. They took the West Side Highway to 125th Street, turned south on Broadway. When they reached 108th he made the left, pulled up in the loading zone in front of her building.

  Reynaldo, the doorman, came out to greet her. She paid the driver in cash, tipped him twenty dollars, heard the trunk click open.

  Reynaldo already had her bags when she stepped out under the awning, flecks of snow blowing around her. He closed the trunk, tapped it twice, and the Town Car pulled away.

  “Welcome back,” he said. “How was your trip?”

  “Could have been better.”

  As they started up the steps, a cat raced out from the foyer, slowed when it reached her. It was solid black, its left ear chewed off short and ragged. It eyed her for a moment, then brushed past her legs and into the street.

  “I don’t know who that belongs to,” Reynaldo said. “It’s been hanging around here all week. Those cats, they’re mala suerte. Bad luck.”

  “I don’t need any more of that.”

  He carried the bags across the marble-floored lobby, pressed the elevator button. It was warm in here, the prewar radiators clanking and hissing. She went to the bank of mailboxes, unlocked the one for 12C. Junk mail, credit card solicitations, utility bills.

  When the elevator arrived, she said, “I can take it from here,” and gave him a five. She rode up to the twelfth floor, walked down the empty hall, and set her bags in front of the door. Kneeling, she checked the small strip of clear tape that bridged the bottom of the door and the vinyl runner. It was untouched. She keyed the door open, listened for a moment before going in. The clock ticking in the kitchen, nothing else.

  She dropped the mail on the foyer table, punched in the security code on the wall keypad, then walked through the apartment, checking rooms. There was no sign anyone had been here while she was gone.

  You’re tired and paranoid, she thought—and it gets worse each time.

  She brought the bags in and locked the door, two dead bolts and a police bar. In the living room, she turned up the thermostat, took off her leather jacket, left it on the futon. She was feeling the miles now, the residual stress from the last few days.

  She was hungry, but almost everything in the refrigerator had gone bad. She made a sandwich of sliced turkey and wilted lettuce stuffed into a stale pita, ate it at the living room window, looking down on 108th Street, Broadway beyond.

  Snow was blowing against the glass, gathering on the fire escape. The bar across the street had Christmas lights up already, blinking red and blue bulbs strung above the neon beer signs. A handful of people stood outside, smoking. One by one, they flicked their butts into the street and went back in, passing others coming out to take their place.

  Past the corner, she could see the triangle of Straus Park, where Broadway and West End Avenue intersected, snow already covering the grass. A homeless man lay across a bench there, a blanket pulled over him. Catching as much sleep as he could before the police rousted him, sent him back uptown.

  She ate half the sandwich, tossed the rest, got a bottle of Château d’Arcins Médoc from the rack atop the refrigerator. She opened it, poured a glass, carried it into the bedroom, and booted up the laptop on her desk. She sipped wine, went to the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette Web site. There was an item about the robbery, but nothing that hadn’t been in the television report. The four-paragraph story ended with a Crime Stoppers number.

  She closed the laptop, brought the glass back into the living room. She turned on the radio in the wall unit. It was already tuned to WQXR, the classical station, and a Bach cello suite filled the room. It was a piece she’d come to recognize but couldn’t name.

  Sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor, she unzipped the overnight bag, spilled the cash out. She sipped wine and counted it again. Thirty-one thousand five hundred. Not a dollar more. A lot of risk for little reward.

  It was snowing harder now, the wind dancing it around out there in the streetlights. She put the money back in the bag, zipped it shut, got the bottle from the kitchen.

  She turned off all the lights in the apartment, sat on the futon, legs tucked under her, bottle on the floor. The lights across the street lit the room in blinking blue and red. It was warmer in here now, the radiators hissing and banging, the reassuring sounds of home.

  Alone in the dark, she drank wine and watched the snow.

  THREE

  When Eddie the Saint walked out of the halfway house for the last time, Terry Trudeau was leaning on the fender of a primer-gray El Camino parked out in front, smoking a cigarette
.

  Light snow was blowing around, the cracked sidewalk already covered with it. Eddie zipped his state-issue windbreaker higher, shifted the bulging trash bag on his shoulder.

  “Hey,” Terry said. “I thought they were never gonna let you out of there.”

  Eddie looked at the El Camino, slowly shook his head. Terry’s smile faded.

  “Five years inside,” Eddie said. “And you expect me to ride out of here in that piece of shit?”

  “It’s the only—”

  “Come over here.”

  Eddie caught him around the neck, pulled him close. Terry struggled, but Eddie held him there, kissed the top of his head, then pushed him away one-handed. He fell back against the El Camino.

  “How long you been out here?”

  “Half hour maybe.” Terry flicked the cigarette away, raised his hands. Eddie tossed the bag at him.

  “Careful with that. You got my whole life in there.”

  The last time Eddie had seen him, he had a mohawk. Now his hair was short and ragged. He was thinner, wore a sleeveless denim jacket over a hooded sweatshirt. His right eyebrow was pierced.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Terry said. “This place makes me nervous.”

  Eddie went around to the passenger side. Terry got in, stowed the bag behind the seat, leaned over and popped the door lock.

  Eddie looked back at the building where he’d spent the last six months; brick walls, bars on the windows. A black kid with dreadlocks stood outside, smoking a cigarette, watching them. Eddie stared at him until he looked away.

  Terry started the engine, exhaust coughing up white in the cold air. Eddie got in. When they pulled away from the curb, Terry said, “How’s it feel?”

  “It feels good. Drive.”

  He looked out the window at Newark going by; warehouses, industrial lots with razor-wire fences, blocks of crumbling brownstones. Bare trees, piled garbage.

  Terry took a pack of Kools from a jacket pocket, held it out.

  “I quit,” Eddie said. “Inside. You got any heat in this bitch?”

  “Sure.” Terry worked the dashboard control, and warm air blew from the vents. He shook a cigarette from the pack, a slight tremor in his hand, fumbled with the lighter.

  “I make you nervous?” Eddie said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You need a cigarette to calm your nerves?”

  “No, I just…”

  “Then put ’em away.”

  Terry tried to fit the cigarette back in the pack, bent it.

  “What have you been doing with yourself?” Eddie said.

  “Getting by. Worked construction for a while, until things slowed down.”

  “Construction? You used to be a pretty good burglar. What happened?”

  “I haven’t done that in a long time, Eddie. I’m out of the game.”

  “Bullshit. What do you do now?”

  “Day work. Whatever comes up.”

  “Sounds like you’re letting your skills go to waste.” Eddie reached over, flicked his eyebrow ring. “What’s this?”

  Terry tilted his head away.

  “Aren’t you worried someone’ll come up to you on the street,” Eddie said, “rip that thing out?”

  “No one’s gonna do that.”

  “ ’Cause you’re a badass?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “It looks like shit.”

  Terry grew silent.

  “Sorry,” Eddie said. He looked out the window. “It’s been a long five years. My social skills are a little rusty.”

  “It’s all right. Where we going?”

  “Head south on the Turnpike. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

  “You need to check in with a PO? After you get settled?”

  “I’m not on paper anymore, kid. That’s why I spent six months in that shithole. No PO. No dropping samples. None of that. I’m free and clear.”

  “You got a place to crash?”

  “Didn’t you see me just walk out that door? I got nothing.”

  “Thing is … I’m with Angie now.”

  “Who’s Angie?”

  “My old lady. We live together.”

  “Where?”

  “Keansburg. There’s not much room, though, you know?”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll find a motel.”

  They were in the Turnpike truck lanes, passing refineries, high-tension towers, oil storage tanks.

  “If she wasn’t there…” Terry said.

  “I said don’t worry about it.”

  A tractor-trailer hurtled by, the El Camino quaking in its slipstream. They passed a warehouse with a billboard that read WELCOME TO CARTERET.

  “What was it like?” Terry said.

  “What?”

  “Inside. Was it different this time? I mean, different than it was for us?”

  “Same as always. Same bullshit. You do your own time, mind your own business. Just like I taught you.”

  “Niggers give you a hard time?”

  “Not more than once.”

  “I would have come to see you, but…”

  “Leave it.”

  Darkness to the east now, the night coming fast.

  “Where do you want to go?” Terry said. “There’s motels on the Turnpike, but the ones on Route Thirty-five might be cheaper.”

  “Keep driving. Couple stops I want to make first.”

  “I told Angie I’d be back by seven. She’s not feeling so hot, so I don’t like to leave her by herself. She’s been throwing up, can hardly stand without getting nauseous.”

  “What’s wrong, she’s so sick you can’t leave her alone?”

  “She’s pregnant.”

  Eddie shook his head, looked out the window. “And both of you tweakers, right? Outstanding.”

  “I don’t tweak anymore, Eddie. I’m trying to leave that shit behind.”

  “Whatever. Pull into that rest stop ahead. I want to use the phone.”

  “I’ve got a cell.”

  “I want a pay phone. But while I’m doing that, you can call your old lady.”

  “Why?”

  “To tell her you’re not going to make it.”

  * * *

  They were parked on a long stretch of road lined with junkyards and auto body shops, all dark. In the distance, burn-off flares from a refinery lit the sky every few minutes, bursts of blue and yellow flame that made the clouds glow.

  “I turned fifty-five inside,” Eddie said. “Did you know that?”

  “Shit, Eddie, no.”

  “Yeah, in August. I was one of the oldest motherfuckers in that place, except for the lifers. Fifty-five years old, and beating off in a six-by-ten cell. And even that wasn’t giving me any pleasure after a while. Nothing was. Some life, huh?”

  Flames glowed against the windshield, faded.

  “Tell me again about Casco,” Eddie said. “What exactly did he say?”

  “Just what I wrote you. That he didn’t know me, wouldn’t deal with me.”

  “You told him I sent you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then that should have been it.”

  “Hell, Eddie. He didn’t know me. I don’t blame him.”

  Eddie looked at his watch. It was almost eight.

  “What are you going to do?” Terry said.

  “Get my money.”

  “Christ, Eddie, you just got out a couple hours ago. What’s the rush?”

  “Relax, kid. There’s not going to be any trouble. We’re all reasonable men.”

  “How do you know he’s there?”

  “He’s there.”

  Eddie opened his door. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s take a walk.”

  * * *

  The L&C AUTOBODY sign was dark, but there were lights in the office, someone moving around inside. A flatbed tow truck and a Cadillac were parked out front.

  They stood behind the tow truck, away from the light of the streetlamp, cold wind blowing around the
m.

  “He know you’re coming?” Terry said.

  Eddie didn’t answer. A mile away, traffic trundled by on an elevated stretch of turnpike.

  “I mean, you called to tell him, right?”

  “You should lay off that crank, it makes you squirrelly.”

  Lights began to go off inside.

  Eddie looked around, saw an empty Heineken bottle stuck in a pile of dark snow. He pulled it loose, brushed it clean, wished he had gloves.

  Casco came out, a big man in an overcoat, scarf, and hat, and turned to lock the door.

  “Wait here,” Eddie said and crossed the lot silently. He came up behind Casco, pressed the mouth of the bottle into his back.

  “Unlock it again,” he said.

  Casco froze.

  “There’s nothing in the office,” he said, calm. “We don’t do cash business here.”

  “Unlock it, go on in. Key in the security code. Get it right the first time.”

  “Eddie? Is that you?”

  “Do it.”

  Casco worked the key in the lock again, opened the door. Eddie pushed him through.

  “Code,” he said.

  The keypad on the wall was blinking red. Casco punched in numbers until there was a faint beep. The light on the keypad turned green.

  “Go on through,” Eddie said.

  “Is this necessary?” He didn’t turn.

  “Inside.” Eddie twisted the bottle. “Your office locked?”

  “Yes.”

  “There another alarm?”

  “No.”

  “Unlock it.”

  Casco used his keys, opened the door. Eddie walked him in, found the wall switch. Fluorescent bulbs hummed and flickered. Cheap paneling, a metal desk, a gray safe in one corner. Photos of racehorses on the walls.

  “What is that?” Casco said. “It’s not a pistol.”

  “It’s my dick,” Eddie said and pushed him forward lightly. Casco turned, saw the bottle.

  “Jesus Christ, Eddie.” He let his breath out. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  “Sorry.” Eddie smiled, put the bottle on the desk. “I saw you out there locking up, couldn’t resist.”

  “I thought you were some junkie.” He took off his hat, set it on the desk. “You should have called. I could have met you somewhere.”

  “I did.”