“No. Let’s do it and get the hell out of here. Just be careful.”
Franco laughed at the warning, a girlish giggle that didn’t fit with such a large, muscular body. He bore the badges of pro boxing; scar tissue around the eyes and a grossly misshapen cauliflower ear. Nothing frightened Franco. But Carlos had been in the business a lot longer, and you could get dead even if you weren’t scared.
“Jesus, you smell that stink?”
Carlos didn’t. He’d come prepared. The suit he wore was throw away, and he’d cut a menthol cigarette filter in half and shoved a piece high up in each nostril. The method was so old hat that his speech was barely affected.
Franco led the way into the basement. Carlos stayed a few steps behind, taking in everything. When he saw the light on in the corner room an alarm went off in his mind. Carlos was sure he’d turned it off.
The larger man walked in without a care, grumbling about the smell. Carlos stood at the bottom of the stairs and scanned his surroundings. There were some boxes. A large sink. A water heater. Several places a person could hide. He thumbed back the hammer on his gun and walked towards the boxes.
“I thought we wasn’t searching.”
“Real quick. I wanna be sure.”
“Hurry up. I stay down here long, I’ll deliver a street pizza.”
There was no one behind the boxes, or in the big sink. That left the water heater. He approached it and brought his gun around in a firm, two handed grip.
No one was there.
“You sure are cautious, for an older guy.”
“That’s how I got to be an older guy.”
Carlos walked over to the room to help with the body removal. He didn’t hear the small expulsion of breath come from beneath the cover of the sump pit.
Bill knew he wouldn’t have been able to do anything if they’d found him. He was on his knees in the sinkhole, curled up. It was a tight fit, made even tighter by the discharge pipe pressing into his back. He’d unplugged the sump pump before climbing in, and since it wasn’t running and his head was bent forward he was practically drinking the foul water. If the killers had lifted the lid, it would have been like shooting a big fish in a small barrel.
When he’d heard them upstairs, Bill knew his hiding places were limited. He put the N-Som file in the dryer and was relieved beyond words that hole was large enough to hold him. Once the contorting was complete, the hard part was keeping still. As the footsteps drew nearer, Bill was sure he’d be discovered. He’d closed his eyes and begun to pray.
But the moment had passed, and it looked like he might actually live through this.
He sighed, too loudly for comfort. There was an odor, but it wasn’t as bad as the death smell in the other room. Bill kept his left eye on the light coming in through the crack in the lid opening. He wanted to change position, but didn’t dare for fear of making noise.
They’d come to get the body. He only had to stay there for a few more minutes, then he could get out.
Then something brushed his hand.
He flinched. It was a reflex. His head bumped against the sump lid, knocking it slightly askew.
“Did you hear that?”
Carlos cocked an ear to the side, listening.
“I didn’t hear shit. Lift your end up higher.”
Carlos pulled on his end of the tarp, drawing it closer to his chest. The effort made him groan.
“Don’t have a heart attack, Grandpa. I don’t wanna have to lug two stiffs outta here.”
Franco laughed at his own joke. Carlos frowned. He shouldn’t have been here with Franco, doing this. He was a specialist. The murder, that was worthy of him. This was grunt work. He stared at Franco, the cauliflower ear stuck to the side of his head like a fat pink pretzel. No wonder he didn’t hear anything. Gino liked to joke that Franco’s ears were for decoration only.
“I heard a noise in the corner.”
“You checked it already.”
Carlos nodded. There was nothing there. But he was sure he’d heard something.
“Maybe it’s, whaddaycallit, senile dementia.”
Franco laughed again. Carlos pursed his lips, making a silent wish that someday Gino put a hit out on Franco. Carlos would take that contract for free.
“Lift higher. You’re not doing your part.”
Carlos strained with his end. He hadn’t been paying attention, and Franco had gotten to the stairs first. When the tarp began to leak, it leaked on Carlos.
Whatever had brushed against Bill was bony and covered in fur. He’d stirred it climbing in, and felt it move up along his body and breach the surface next to his cheek.
Dead rat, bloated and rotten.
Bill closed his eyes. The gorge was building in his throat, and he knew he had to do something or he’d throw up.
Carefully, he moved a hand up to the rat and took it between his fingers. He dragged it back under water, where the smell couldn’t get to him.
The air was still funky, but the nausea had passed. He stared up at the lid. The crack was wider now, the cover several inches off center.
He braced for the worst, sure that they’d heard him and were on their way over. They’d pull up the lid and point their guns. The same guns that killed Mike Bitner. Bill would die curled up in foul water, clutching a dead rat, hearing the laughter of petty thugs.
But the seconds slouched by without incident. Bill heard nothing. His neck had begun to cramp, and his legs had long ago lost circulation. Slowly, gently, he straightened up his head and pushed back the cover, peering over the edge of the hole.
The basement was empty.
He climbed out, cold and shaking.
Carlos slammed the car trunk closed and wiped his gooey hands on his pants. Franco giggled.
“You look worse than the stiff.”
It was true. On the way up the stairs, the tarp came open and spilled all over. Carlos was a mess.
“I gotta go clean up.”
“No shit. Ain’t getting in my car like that.”
Franco leaned against the hood and lit a smoke while Carlos made his way back into the house.
Bill was in the kitchen when he heard the back door open. There was nowhere to go except the bathroom. He was there in two steps, throwing the N-Som folder in the cabinet under the sink. Then he climbed into the tub and closed the shower curtain.
The shower curtain was transparent.
Carlos immediately noticed the water on the floor. He pulled out his gun and peered down the basement stairs. Dirty wet footsteps, leading up through the kitchen, and into the bathroom.
“Dr. May, right?”
Bill was pressed into the corner of the shower, shivering. The man before him was thin and angular. His hair and beard were dirty gray, and he had eyes the color of flint. He raised the gun to Bill’s head.
“Answer me.”
“I’m William May.”
The man nodded. “Thought you looked familiar. We’ve got our eye on you, you know.”
The man winked at him. Then he fired the gun.
Bill crumpled into a ball. The shot was so loud it hurt. He hit his head on the bathtub edge and covered his face.
But other than his new lump, there was no wound. He hadn’t been shot.
He peeked through his fingers and saw the man at the sink, washing his hands with some soap.
“Consider that a warning, Dr. May. I only miss on purpose. You see the body?”
Bill didn’t trust his voice to answer.
