Killshot

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 halfassed 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, are 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