I'd driven through here a few times over the years. I'd driven just about every road in the county at one time or another. Sometimes there would be a tired woman hanging clothes out on a line, or a man with his head and arms under the hood of one of the junked cars that sprouted like mushrooms. But mostly there were just empty frame houses and a few desolate trailers, their aluminum doors flapping in the wind.
The Chevy truck sat silent on the grass. I got out of my car, crossed behind it, keeping the car and then the truck between me and the house. Otis's gun was in my hand. I opened the Chevy's driver-side door. 'Okay, come on out.'
Ted climbed down, his eyes on the gun. He moved a little away from me, chewing on his lip. 'Anyone in the house?' I asked. He shook his head, looked into the truck at Otis.
'This way,' I told Otis. He slid across the seat and under the wheel, dropped to the spongy ground beside me. 'What happens now?' I asked.
His left hand still cradled his right wrist. He scowled. 'I'm supposed to call Frank when we get here.'
'This his place?'
'He don't live here. But he owns it.'
'Where does he live?'
'Cobleskill.'
'Why come all the way out here?'
He didn't answer, just kept scowling.
'Yeah,' I said. 'Stupid question.'
We went around the truck and up the plank steps. There was no movement, no noise except for the sounds we made. Otis fumbled with a key but he couldn't work the lock left-handed; Ted had to do it, in the end.
The failing afternoon light didn't reach inside. Otis flipped a switch and a floor lamp came on in the front room, to our left. There was a tattered couch against the far wall; two brown chairs, upholstery split, white stuffing hanging out; some side tables; peeling, faded wallpaper. A doorless doorway in the back led to a kitchen with a linoleum floor, cabinets on the wall. Straight ahead of us was a small hallway. An uncarpeted wooden staircase ran along the right side of the hallway, leading up into darkness.
The whole place was still and deserted and smelled of mildew and stale cooking grease. It was colder than it was outside, in the way a damp, closed place can be.
'Sit down,' I said to Ted. I gestured with the gun at one of the brown chairs. 'If you get up I'll shoot you. It's not a problem for me. Understand?' He nodded and sat quickly, hands gripping the soft arms of the chair. I turned to Otis. 'Okay. We're here. Call Frank.'
He crossed the room to a table that stood under the one lit lamp. There was a black phone there. Otis lifted the receiver with his left hand and, holding it, dialed. He put the receiver to his left ear and I put the gun to his right one, repeating in my head the number he'd dialed.
There was silence in the shadowy room, then Otis spoke. 'Yeah. It's me. Gimme Frank.' He waited. I gently wrapped my fingers around his swollen right wrist. He tensed and looked at me. I raised an eyebrow and nodded. 'Yeah, Frank,' he said back into the phone, licked his lips. 'No, it's good. We're here.' Pause. 'Yeah.' Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. 'Yeah, okay. No problem.' He replaced the receiver slowly. I let go of his wrist, took the gun from his head.
'What the fuck was that for?' He drew his wrist to his chest.
'Sorry,' I said. 'You strike me as a guy too stupid to be sneaky when he's really scared. You did fine, Otis.' I stepped back a little, included Ted in the wave of the gun.
Let’s go.
Ted stood up fast. Otis said, 'Go where?'
There was a door in the wall under the staircase. I backed over to it, watching the two men who stood in the yellow lamplight. I threw the bolt and the door creaked open. A gust of mud-scented air rolled into the hallway. 'Downstairs,' I said.
Ted and Otis filed past me. I bolted the door behind them, then went quickly out the front. There was a double- doored cellar hatch on the side of the house by the truck. It was held shut by a large bolt. I found a piece of warped two-by-four from a rotting pile of construction lumber on the porch and, as insurance, wedged it through the doors' iron handles.
I went back inside, looked at my watch. Five-thirty. It would take Grice at least half an hour to get up here from Cobleskill. I switched on another light in the living room, picked up the phone. I dialed the number at Antonelli's.
It rang a long time in the emptiness.
If the cops were still there they would have answered, because all over the world that was what cops did.
If they were gone Tony should have answered. Under the circumstances another man might have closed the bar for the rest of the day, or the rest of the week. But as much as the big house across the road, the bar was where Tony lived. And unlike the house, in the bar he wasn't alone.
I pressed the cut-off button, got another dial tone, called the state troopers.
'D Unit. Sergeant Whiteside,' a woman's voice said.
'Ron MacGregor, please.'
'Sorry, he's gone. Someone else help you?'
'You still have Tony Antonelli up there?'
'Hold it.' The voice went away, came back. 'Says here Antonelli was just here answering questions, left hours
