him. He knew he wasn’t walking away from anything now.
“Suze,” he said, “are you all right?”
She nodded, mute, tears spilling down her cheeks. Behr pulled her close again and met eyes with the guard across the lobby, a middle-aged black man, who turned away after a few moments.
“Is everything okay… with this?” he asked, touching her belly. She nodded again, placing her hand over his.
“What’s going on, Frank? What’s happening?” she asked.
“The guy-was he around my age, big?” he asked.
“No.”
“Young, early twenties, muscled up-”
“No. He was on the small side. Late thirties. I couldn’t see too well, but I think he had some kind of scar on the side of his face.”
Behr gritted his teeth. He had an idea who she was talking about.
“Why didn’t you want me to wait for the police?” she asked.
“Too long to tell right now.” That’s when Neil Ratay pulled up outside. Behr had called him as soon as Susan had hung up with him. From the looks of things Ratay must have run to his car and lead-footed it over.
“Frank?” Susan asked, as Behr led her out of the bank toward Ratay’s car.
“I need to put you somewhere safe and I can’t watch you right now. I figured you’d be happy to spend time with him.” Behr’s eyes searched the parking lot while they crossed to the reporter, who had gotten out of his car and waited for them.
“Neil,” Behr said.
“Frank,” the reporter answered. His eyes held questions, but he didn’t ask them.
“Thanks for coming,” Behr said.
By now Susan had calmed a bit. “Hi Neil, sorry about this,” she began, but he waved her words away with a cigarette he’d just lit.
“So I’ll work from home today, no big thing,” he said.
Behr gave him a nod. “There shouldn’t be much danger. It’s just a precaution because she walked into it. Even if they know who she is, he didn’t follow her here. Just stay off the street for a while.” Behr’s mouth shut. He looked at Susan. He couldn’t speak what he wanted to, not with the thoughts swirling in his head- thoughts of causes, violence, results, and revenge, of linkage.
“How long?” Ratay wondered.
“Not long,” Behr said. He put his hand on Susan’s back and steered her toward Ratay’s car.
“What about you?” Susan asked, her voice steady now.
“I’ll be fine,” he said.
“Frank-,” she started.
“Neil, would you mind?” Behr said, gesturing at the cigarette and then to Susan as Ratay moved to get in his car.
“Sure,” he answered. Ratay paused for a moment. “Oh…” A half smile of knowing came to his lips as he flicked away the cigarette.
FORTY-ONE
It was finally payday. ’Bout fucking time. After all the work: the lugging the equipment, the installing the lamps, the tending the plants, the making the connections. Yeah, it was about fucking time. Charlie Schlegel stood in an alley off Lambert Street with Kenny waiting for Peanut and Nixie to show. He had the shit in the back of his Durango and they were leaning against it when Peanut’s Neon came around the corner. He pulled up close, and he and Nixie got out of the car.
“’Supps?” were exchanged, and Peanut handed over a thick envelope of money before Charlie passed an old nylon gym bag containing the weed and oxy. It should’ve been that easy.
“Count it, bro,” Kenny said, evoking noises of displeasure from Peanut and Nixie.
“Man, it’s all there,” Peanut said.
“I know it is, ’cause if it’s not, I’m gonna take a reciprocating saw to that piece of shit ride you’re so proud of,” Charlie said, jutting a thumb over Peanut’s shoulder toward the Neon. Kenny smiled; the other two did not.
“Lemme know when you need more,” Charlie said.
“Uh-huh,” Peanut answered, turning back for his car.
“Yeah,” Kenny said, “don’t smoke it all in one place. We know how you folks get.”
Peanut stopped and turned.
“Yo, what fucking ‘folks’?”
“Dirty African folks,” Kenny said, smiling and squaring with Peanut. Charlie tucked the money into his pocket and smirked.
Peanut shook his head, looked down, then swung a right hand, open palmed, and bitch-slapped Kenny hard across the face. Everything froze for a moment, as if none of them could believe it had happened. Then Kenny, eyes full of rage, lunged forward, dropped his level, and laced an arm under Peanut’s and around his back. Kenny pivoted and flipped him to the concrete. Peanut landed on his shoulder and the side of his face with a slapping sound that forced the air out of him. Kenny dropped a knee on Peanut’s chest and began punching.
Charlie shook off the momentary surprise and stepped forward toward the action and right into the point of Nixie Buncher’s Piranha automatic knife. Charlie staggered back, swatting ineffectively at the blade, which landed two more times. Liver-stuck, Charlie sat down and landed heavily on the sidewalk. Kenny looked up and met eyes with Nixie. The knife, slippery with blood, hit the pavement with a clink. Kenny jumped to his feet and went to his brother, who was slowly reclining back onto the ground. A groan of air escaped him.
“Chick,” Kenny said, coming close and seeing the massive amount of blood spilling out through his brother’s hands. “You motherfucker!” Kenny screamed, yanking the Smith amp; Wesson out of Charlie’s belt. Nixie had already started sprinting and was halfway down the block by the time Kenny was done fighting with the safety. Peanut had struggled to his feet as well and was making a run for it, weaving unsteadily away, when Kenny fired half a dozen times and lit him up. Hit all over the back and legs, Peanut tumbled forward onto the ground, his cheek pressed against a crack in the cement. Kenny stood and put two more rounds into Peanut’s upper back, ending him.
“Cocksucker,” Kenny said, kneeling back down, cradling Charlie’s head. His brother sputtered but couldn’t seem to talk. “Goddammit, Charlie, what good is a piece if you don’t pull it, asshole?” Kenny groaned. Charlie’s breath came heavy in his chest and sounded like a kettle on its way to a boil. Kenny scrambled Charlie’s cell phone out of his pocket and dialed 911.
“Yo, send an ambulance!” Kenny yelled the location off Lambert. “There’s a white guy stabbed down here. Forget the spook who’s been shot, he’s done. Just treat the other guy.” He snapped the phone shut and wiped greasy sweat from Charlie’s face.
“Don’t fucking die, bro,” he said quietly. “C’mon, Charlie boy.” He waited there for another minute, until he heard sirens in the distance. He wiped off the gun with his shirt and then placed it in his brother’s hand. He felt a slow, heavy drumbeat kicking in the base of his skull and heard the echo-effect lyrics in his head:
You’re nobody, till somebody kills you… I don’t wanna die.
He tried to shake the stupid shit off, took the envelope of cash out of Charlie’s pocket, left the bag of weed, climbed into the Durango, and drove away as slowly as he could make himself go.
The heat had finally broken. The day had started much cooler than had any in months, and it had stayed that way. Vicky Schlegel went through the empty house turning off the air conditioners. Why keep the house cool when no one was home? Everything was costing a fortune now: electricity, food, gas, booze. Well, maybe not booze. They had plenty of that. Terry brought home cases’ worth from the bar. And he and the boys had been coming home with a real snootful lately, too. They were under a lot of pressure, she supposed, and needed to blow off steam. They were all handling it well enough it seemed, except for Deanie. He was the one she was worried about.
