“Indeed,” I said.
The cop asked a couple of questions: Had we seen anything prior to the shoot-out? Did we know of any gang members who lived on the street? Had any of us seen a white van in the area? — and after we lied sufficiently, he asked if I had any questions before he left.
“Any idea why they chose here to fight?” I asked.
He turned his palms over. “Who knows, right? Stupid people do stupid things.”
The cop was right, of course, but that didn’t explain where Bruce Grossman was.
After the police allowed us to leave, Sam and I took Maria back to her house but told her now was the time to see what life in Ohio looked like, but to stay in contact as we still didn’t know if we’d need her. The scene outside my mother’s house was grisly, enough so that it seemed likely all the players involved would have much larger concerns than the fact that one guy ripped them off for money, and information, and pride.
Still, I wasn’t convinced Bruce was alive. Fiona may have been correct about his cageyness, but I was more concerned with finding something concrete, so Sam and I drove back to Zadie’s house to see if there was any sign of him. The house looked from the outside precisely the way we’d left it-which is to say, the glass front door was broken and inside the house, tire tracks and cat heads were everywhere.
“I’m gonna guess Zadie will want this cleaned up before she moves back in,” Sam said.
“That sounds like a good way for Nate to apologize,” I said.
We moved room to room, guns out, just in case someone else was there who maybe wasn’t so friendly. When we stepped into Bruce’s bedroom, it was empty except for a single envelope on the floor with my name on the front.
“You think it’s Dolphins season tickets?” Sam said.
I opened it up and Sam and I read the letter inside: I wanted to say thank you for all of your help. I spoke with Barry and he’s going to set up care for my mother in that place you guys talked about, too, I guess. I’ve spent the last 12 years in prison and I’m not about to go back to prison again, even if it’s a whole state.
Have you ever been to that place? It’s a sweet idea, but
I’m 65. I’ll get the rest of my money to Barry shortly and then I’ll send more when my mother needs it. I’ve got a couple of places I want to check out first, if you know what I mean. Thanks again and thank Fiona for making me feel alive again. Oh-one other thing: I re- turned all of the Ghouls’ paperwork to them while they were busy plotting my death this evening. I’m good to my word, Michael, as you were to yours.
Bruce
I folded the letter in half and in half again and then ripped it into tiny pieces.
“Barry told him the truth,” I said.
“Mike,” Sam said, “they’re friends. What did you expect?”
“This was a chance for Bruce to go completely straight,” I said.
“Just like you?” Sam said. “You maybe thinking about taking a job as a security guard at a bank now? Wasn’t that someone’s bright idea once?”
We walked outside and stood for a moment on the front porch and just looked at the empty street. It was late and the air had turned cool. There were only a few more nights like this left before summer would make even the latest hour feel like noon.
A gold Lincoln pulled down the street then and stopped right in front of the house. The back window rolled down and Lyle Connors stared out at us. He blinked once and then stepped out of his car and walked toward us.
“Hello, Lyle,” I said.
“Jasper,” he said. “If that’s your name.”
“It isn’t,” I said.
Lyle ran his tongue over his lips, but he couldn’t stop himself from smiling. “Fed?”
“If I were a fed,” I said, “you’d be in prison. But it’s early yet, so you never know.”
“I could have you killed,” he said.
“No, you couldn’t,” I said.
“Well, regardless, my offer to you stands. I like how you work.”
“You’re a criminal, Lyle,” I said. “And by tomorrow at this time, I can promise you that your world will be crashing down around you.”
“I’m Teflon, like Gotti.”
“Gotti’s dead,” Sam said, which caused Lyle to take a step back from us. “And just like you, he was surrounded by guys who snitched him out.”
“Who are you?” Lyle said to me. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even sad, though he should have been, since news reports said at least twenty-five men were dead between the two gangs. He actually sounded genuinely curious. Maybe he just wanted to know who was going to be behind his eventual perp walk.
“My name is Michael Westen,” I said. “I’m a spy.”
