players, and screaming for help was no good. Gooch’s van was another thirty feet away and Whit measured out his life in those steps, his sneakered feet slamming against the street, thinking he’ll have to chase me down the street but how far can his gun reach? He ran and as he turned onto Timber Road a gray Mercedes barreled down the street at him.
He risked a glance behind him and saw a young man with white-blond hair – not Bucks – chasing him onto Locke, gun in hand.
Whit angled to get the van between him and the man and he heard the crack of the gun, the silencer off, sure, to let the bullet fly farther. He was ten feet from the van… five… the gun fired again and heat passed his throat like an angel’s wing.
He thought he was hit. He rounded the corner of the van as the Mercedes accelerated, revving in sweet German force, and thundered past Whit.
Whit glanced back, saw the Mercedes aiming at Blondie. Saw Blondie turn and run and the Mercedes clip him. Blondie went over the windshield. The Mercedes spun out, its front crashing into a modest little Honda parked at the intersection of Locke and Timber, and Blondie fell, went down on the other side of the car.
Gooch. In Eve’s car.
Whit scrambled to his feet. Felt his back, his arm. No wound although a sting lay across his neck; there was no gush of blood.
Gooch yelled through an open window. ‘Go!’
Whit ran, got the key into the van, started the engine. He watched in the rearview.
The Mercedes was gone. Blondie stood, staggering past the street corner, gun still in hand.
Whit floored the van. Shots fired in River Oaks; the police would be here in ninety freaking seconds. He headed fast down Locke Lane, squealed onto Claremont, then ran a red light and drove past Westheimer. He stayed straight, heading all the way back to the quiet of West University Place.
They could stop Paul Bellini dead in his tracks now. Get Eve to review the CD, identify the most incriminating files. They could be sent, anonymously, to the DA’s office or the FBI or whoever would descend on Paul like a pack of wolves fastest. He’d have to check evidentiary law, decide who would be best to approach. But the win was in their grasp. A negotiated safety for his mother, and they could be in Port Leo by tonight or tomorrow. At the light at Bissonnet he turned left, checking his neck in the rearview mirror while he waited for the arrow to go green. A graze, nothing worse. A millimeter the other way and his carotid artery would be sprayed all over the manicured green of River Oaks Park. He breathed hard but steadied his hands.
He took a circuitous route through the quiet, narrow streets of West U, driving past the fancy blue street signs, but there was no sign he was being followed. After ten minutes of driving and watching his rearview he pulled the van into Charlie’s garage. Charlie was gone; he had left this morning for his stand-up gig in San Antonio, with them promising him to lie low and do nothing untoward or illegal. As soon as Whit parked, Eve was at the back door, opening it, worried.
He ran in, she slammed the door behind him.
They shot at me, nearly hit me. Gooch saved my ass.’
‘Whit, oh no, baby, here, sit down.’
It did not even bother him that she called him baby. He collapsed on the couch. She examined his neck, got a damp cloth. He told her about Tasha, their discussion, her attempt to shoot him, the blond guy’s chase of him.
‘I hope Gooch broke the son of a bitch’s legs,’ Eve said. ‘That’s Gary, one of Paul’s thugs. Not bright, but a good shot.’
‘Gary wasn’t with Frank and Bucks when they left,’ Whit said. ‘He must’ve followed them back.’
Eve ran the washcloth along his face. This stops now,’ she said in a hoarse voice. ‘I don’t want you hurt.’
‘It does stop now. I got the CD Tasha was burning of your laptop’s files. Files Paul wanted. If it’s got the goods on Paul we can tell him we’ll show it to the police unless he leaves you alone. And then we’ll show it anyway.’
Eve stopped wiping. ‘Let me see this CD.’
For an instant Whit didn’t want to give her the disc. In case she didn’t want to show it to the cops, didn’t want to implicate herself.
‘We’ll wait for Gooch. I want him to see the data, too.’
‘Don’t you trust me, Whit?’
‘Yeah,’ he said, not knowing if it was true. ‘But we’ll wait a minute for Gooch, okay?’
She sat next to him, doctoring his graze. They waited. But Gooch didn’t come back.
25
Bucks watched the tall, ugly punk on the bed. The man’s eyes were closed, and he was tied down with sailboat rope Frank stored in the garage. Tasha had draped a cold washcloth across his bruised face, but the man hadn’t stirred.
From the upstairs window Bucks watched Frank Polo and Tasha Strong in the driveway. The damaged Mercedes was tucked into the garage; still driveable, at least enough to limp into the driveway and then behind the closed doors. The bullet Gary had put through the Mercedes’ back windshield couldn’t be seen. A police car had arrived minutes after Tasha and Bucks got the punk and Gary into the house, and the Mercedes into the garage. Frank stood out in the driveway and he had chatted with the cops, explaining another car crunched into his friend’s Honda then veered into their yard before taking off. He had no idea why a neighbor would have reported shots fired. The sound of the accident perhaps? Or kids running around in the winter sunshine with BB guns? Youngsters in the park last week shot grackles out of the oaks. Frank, with a smile, asked the officers if they heard his songs on the oldies stations, and would they like an autograph for their wives? The police had asked their questions of him and Tasha; she said she owned the Honda, didn’t see the other car hit it. The police left. Tasha swept up the broken glass in the street.
Frank could be awesomely cool when he had to be.
‘How’s the guy I hit?’ a gravelly voice behind Bucks said. The punk – he had said last night at the club his name was Leonard – had one eye open. ‘Did I kill him?’
‘You’re shot, buddy, and you’re wondering if you killed someone?’ Bucks said.
‘I’m shot?’ Leonard seemed surprised. But his eyes were unfocused.
‘Bullets are funny things. He shot at you but it went through the rear windshield and an edge of the headrest and hit you in the back of the head. Broke the skin but it bounced off your skull, I think. You pulled up hard into our yard, I leaned in and belted you twice with the butt of my gun. Your head must be made of granite, partner.’
‘I’m shot,’ the man said. He rubbed at the back of his head, as though he expected a bullet fragment to be protruding like a bump. ‘Gonna be a long wait for the second bullet.’
Bucks sat down by him. ‘Why should I want to kill you, partner?’
‘I’ve messed up your plans,’ Leonard said.
‘But I’m highly adaptable,’ Bucks said. ‘You need to be adaptable, too. So answer a few questions for me, and I don’t stick my gun in your pants and shoot your dick off.’ He tossed Gooch’s wallet on the bed. ‘Who are you, Mr O’Connor, and why do you have such a grudge against me?’
‘You’re nothing to me,’ Gooch said.
‘What’s the real name? I’m thinking it’s not O’Connor.’
‘Guchinski. My friends call me Gooch. You can call me sir. Mr Vasco’s not gonna be happy about-’
‘Drop it. You’re not from Detroit. Or from Joe Vasco. I made a couple of calls this morning. No one there ever heard of you.’
Gooch closed his eyes for a moment, shrugged. ‘That’s correct.’
‘So who are you and what do you want with Eve?’
Silence.
‘See, Gooch, I don’t think you were her partners and she double-crossed you. I heard you were all cozy last night at the Pie Shack. So why were you looking for her last night?’
