Shotgun Opera

Worry etched Linda?s face.

?He won?t say anything,? Mike said. ?Get your purse. I?ll drive you home.?

?And that?s it?? Linda asked. ?I just go home like nothing?s happened? It feels wrong. My husband was a police officer. He?d never believe this.?

?You?d be surprised.? Back in the day, Mike had known several street-tough Irish cops who?d covered for each other almost just like this. They didn?t always trust the system to make the right decisions.

On his way out the door, Mike looked back at his nephew. ?We need to have a serious talk when I get back.?

?Right.? Andrew swallowed hard, didn?t appear to be looking forward to it.

* * *

Andrew sat for fifteen minutes watching the cooling corpse, when some good news occurred to him. His would-be assassin was dead. That meant it was over, right?

Andrew scooted in close to the body, took a purple lapel between thumb and forefinger and slowly opened the dead man?s jacket. He kept thinking the guy was going to lurch awake zombie-style and grab him. Andrew reached into the man?s inside pocket and took out his wallet. A Texas driver?s license said he was Enrique Mars from Dallas. Andrew found three hundred and nine dollars in cash and put it in his pocket. He left the Visa card.

Andrew went for the pants pockets but hesitated. He didn?t really feel like reaching into a dead guy?s pants.

?Find his keys,? said a voice behind him.

Andrew jumped, spun to find his uncle standing three feet behind him. ?Jesus. Are you a fucking ninja or something??

?I can move quiet when I want to.?

?What?s the matter with your eyes?? Andrew noticed Mike had one closed tight.

?Nothing. I got something in there during the fight. Forget it. I said get his keys.?

?What for??

?He left his car about three minutes? walk up the road. That?s why we didn?t see any headlights.?

?He was a professional, huh??

Mike scratched his chin, looked down at the dead thing in purple. ?Semiprofessional, I?d say. He let a woman and an old man make him dead.?

?And a spider,? Andrew said.

?Midlevel muscle,? Mike said. ?That?s what worries me.?

?He?s dead. What?s to worry??

Mike shook his head, exhaled like his body finally remembered he was an old man. ?No. Not that simple. Here?s what I think. Somebody back East found out where you were. They got lazy or cheap or both and picked up the phone to get somebody local to tie up loose ends. He?s probably out of St. Louis or Kansas City.?

Andrew sighed, handed Mike the wallet. ?Dallas.?

?Bottom line is they know where you are.? Mike put a hand on Andrew?s shoulder and squeezed. Hard. ?Something you want to tell me??

No. He didn?t want to. But his uncle suddenly seemed scary. Not just cranky and hostile, but formidable. And he found himself spilling the whole story, how he?d mentioned to Vincent he had an uncle in Oklahoma but he didn?t think it was a big deal and Vincent was his pal and certainly wouldn?t tell anybody.

Mike said, ?Anyone will talk. Maybe he?s your pal, but when they have a car battery hooked up to his nuts and he?s shit his pants and pissed himself, he?ll beg to talk. Anyone would. They might shove a broomstick up his ass. Break all the bones in his hands one at a time. Anything.?