American Blood (17 page)

“I remembered you have the late shift, thought I should drop by.”

She didn’t answer.

Marshall said, “I like the new table.”

“What’s going on?”

He smiled. “What do you mean?”

“You’re looking kind of stressed. Last time I saw you, I don’t think you had frown lines.”

“Oh. Yeah. I guess.”

“So what’s going on?”

“Oh. Nothing. How’ve you been? I haven’t seen you in a while.”

Quiet. In the kitchen he could hear the clock ticking, and that was the only sound in the house. She said, “Marshall. Do you really want to do this now?”

He said, “Depends what you have in mind. I thought you might just want to have a talk. And maybe a coffee.”

She glanced at her watch, and he knew it was only to underline a point. “I would, but it’s after midnight. And it’s been a long day.”

“So some other time, then.”

She leaned back and laid an arm on the rest. The way she was biting her lip, he knew she was trying to tread lightly. She said, “I don’t know if we should.”

“Why not?”

“Well, because it didn’t turn out well once, and I just … I think it will maybe end up much the same way. So.”

“Maybe. It doesn’t have to.”

They sat a while without talking. He’d always been comfortable with lulls, but he could sense her trying to pick the best way forward. She said, “Marshall. The parts of you I know, I like a lot.”

He smiled and said, “Back atcha.”

She made a bracket with her thumb and first finger. “But I feel like there’s about a five-year gap somewhere back there that’s kind of a blank area, and it scares me.”

“There’s nothing to be scared about.”

“I feel like we’re having the same conversation.”

“Maybe I can do better the second time round.”

She sighed through her nose and looked at him and smiled sadly, her eyes not in it. “I feel like I don’t really know you. Does that make sense?”

“What do you want to know?”

“I think we’ve been here before.”

“What do you want to know?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. The normal things. Your parents. Your friends from back then. What you did. It just … It scares me that you’ve put a block on so many parts of your life. Or that you just don’t want to tell me about them. It’s scary. I don’t know if you understand that.”

“No. I get it.”

“So maybe you can tell me some stuff.”

He leaned forward in his seat and in his mind he could see the whole story scripted neatly for the telling, but as always there was that block and he said, “I was a cop in New York.”

Other phrases coming to him, but he stalled, because he knew they were the well-worn explanations she’d heard before and they weren’t the truth. So he just sat there quietly, and he couldn’t help but ponder that strange reality of never being short of a word other than when it came to talking about himself.

She said, “Marsh. I have a little girl. I can’t have you with … you know.”

Quiet. He said, “What?”

“This sort of secret element. I don’t really know anything about your past and sometimes what you even do day to day. Like … I ask you what’s got you on edge and you say nothing, but it’s more than nothing if you show up here at this hour and you’ve got a gun under your shirt. You know. It doesn’t exactly make me relaxed about things.”

He knew his face didn’t change, but she said, “Don’t be all surprised. They don’t make cell phones that big these days.”

Marshall didn’t answer.

She said, “Are you in trouble?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“So for god’s sake. Why are you carrying a gun?”

“I had some trouble before. But it’s pretty much gone.”

“Sounds like there’s a bit left.”

“Yeah. But it’s probably not like you think it is.”

“Why? How do I think it is?”

“Well. There’s trouble. But I’m the one dispensing it.”

She passed the back of her hand across her brow and let her breath out through her teeth. “Shit, Marshall. That doesn’t mean anything to me. It’s just dumb talk.”

“Whatever. You don’t need to worry.”

“Well I don’t think I could. I don’t think I’d have the energy.”

Just the clock, carrying on patiently.

He said, “Can I see Abby?”

“Marshall.”

“Just a look in.”

He counted off the seconds, holding his breath. She said, “Yes. But you leave the gun here. Or you can go.”

He lifted his shirt and took the .45 from his belt and laid it on the coffee table between them. Out of place in that peaceful context, like some prelude to tragedy, lying there with its hammer cocked.

She got up, and he followed her very quietly down the hallway. The little girl’s bedroom door was open and she was awake, looking at him as he glanced in, fistfuls of sheet bunched up under her grin.

“Marshy Marsh!”

He feigned shock and went and sat on the edge of the bed. “You shouldn’t be awake at this hour. Little girls should be tucked in and off to sleep by this time.”

“I am tucked in. See?”

She scooted down under the covers, the sheet pale blue with yellow ducks.

He said, “Yeah. But you’re not asleep though.”

“Your talking woke me up. And I’m big. Not little.”

“You’re littler than me.”

“But everyone is. So that doesn’t count.” A little moth-wing flutter in the sheet as she talked.

“All right. How’s school been going?”

“Good.”

“Have you learned any new words?”

“Some.”

“Some. That’s not a new word. You’ve known ‘some’ for ages.”

“No, like … I learned some new words.”

“Oh, right. I thought ‘some’ was the new word.”

“No. It’s an old word.”

She came out from under the sheet. “How come you’re here?”

“I just came for a little visit.”

“Did you see Juanita?”

“Yes. I saw Juanita.”

“She has a new cat.”

“Huh. She didn’t tell me that. Have you had any more wiggly teeth?”

“Yep. Wiggly and gone.” She grinned to flaunt the evidence: a gap front and center down the bottom.

Marshall said, “Wow. Look at that. Tooth fairy wouldn’t have been pleased he had to pay up.”

“Tooth fairy’s a girl.”

“Yours might be. Mine was definitely a boy, though. Probably retired by now, I’d say.”

She giggled. She said, “Do you miss me?”

“Yes. Lots.”

“Are you coming back for more visits?”

“Well, I don’t know. I hope so.”

From the doorway he heard, “Marshall has to go now, sweetie.”

“Where do you have to go, Marshy?”

“Oh. Just home.”

“Why don’t you just stay here?”

Right then, there were very few things he’d rather do.

He said, “Because my bed will be sad.”

She giggled again and raised her arms. “Good-bye hug?”

He leaned down and hugged her, couldn’t help but think of Cyrus Bolt’s last embrace. Handling that slack-jawed corpse, shoving it in the car. God. And here he was with this kid.

“See ya, Marshy.”

“See you, sweetheart. Be good.”

Sarah was leaning on the doorframe with her arms folded and he stepped past her into the hall and she trailed him back to the living room. He picked up the gun and slipped it in his belt. She stood watching and the blank expression was disapproval enough. She led him back to the entry, opened the door and held it for him, like coming out of county lockup.

He paused on the step, trying to think of parting sentiments.

She said, “Well. See you later.” She was fanning the door very gently.

He felt he needed something more than just a bye. The phone call from that morning kept looping away, the guy laying out his threats. As soon as you hold someone dear then you stand to lose something.

What would you do if someone hurt them?

Standing there at the threshold he said, “Spoke to someone today. Just made me remember how much I miss you both.”

He’d hoped she’d offer something back that he could cling to, but she didn’t answer. The way her mouth was set he could tell what she was thinking: too bad.

He stepped outside. He said, “I’ll give you a call.”

“See you, Marshall.”

She closed the door.

2010

Lloyd came by. He had a key and let himself in the front, the Third Avenue entry. Marshall figured him for about thirty. He was like Tony minus twenty years and twenty pounds, the same sleek tailoring, more Wall Street than gangster.

He came out back and saw Mikhail curled on the floor, blood leaking through his fingers, lips shining with it. He ran a hand through his hair, looked at Tony Asaro still seated at the table. The espresso was gone now.

“Jesus, Dad, what happened?”

Asaro said, “Vicki’s backup guy tried to pull, Marshall put him down.”

“Shit. That must have been something.” Unfazed, trying to impress the old man.

He took a step back from the table, looked over at Mikhail, trying to figure the blow-by-blow. Marshall was leaning on the doorframe, gun in hand, watching the front room. Defied belief they had a man here on the verge of dying, Tony Asaro sitting there like this was his living room. A calm and distant look in his eye, like reflecting on a pretty normal day.

Lloyd said, “Where’s Vicki B.?”

Asaro said, “He had somewhere else to be.”

“Is he hurt?”

“Yeah. Don’t touch that spoon.”

“Oh, god.” He leaned in for a look, a hand on his midriff to stop his tie dangling. “Is that an eye?”

Jimmy Wheels dropped his voice an octave, like the fight-night announcer: “Gets it on the first try.”

The three of them laughed. Lloyd looked around, checking everyone was enjoying the moment, though he’d actually lost some color. “Marsh, you’re looking worried there. Chill.”

Marshall glanced at him and then away, didn’t move. Pulling the trigger was bad enough, but humor while the vitals waned was verging on depravity.

Lloyd came closer, the smile hanging in there, keeping it friendly. “Not a good look for a cop, is it? Shooting a guy like that.”

Marshall didn’t answer.

“Are you carrying your badge? Must be some sort of bad-luck omen or whatever. Killing someone while you got your silver on you.”

The smile had gone. He had a light-switch personality, the smooth corporate side only there while he needed it. He said, “Should make you assume the position, pat you down for it.”

Jimmy Wheels said, “Lloyd, come on.”

Lloyd grinned and punched Marshall lightly. He stepped away, back in character. “No, you’re right. Things to do.”

He went and stood over Mikhail and said, “What’s the plan?”

Marshall said, “He needs a doctor.”

Asaro ignored him. He said, “I’m going home. You three are going to take this guy home.”

“Which is where?”

“Brooklyn. Return-to-sender type thing.” He laughed. “Shit, imagine we had a stamp.”

*   *   *

Jimmy Wheels had a custom Escalade, blacked-out windows and a nice tan leather interior, modified controls with no foot pedals. They put Mikhail in back and headed out down Third Ave., Jimmy and Lloyd up front, Marshall and Jimmy’s chair in the seats behind.

Jim wasn’t happy. “Wish he’d fucking tell me when he’s planning things to turn out like this. Like, I woulda at least brought some plastic or something. Gonna be shit all through the trunk now, fucking nightmare.”

Lloyd had his color back now Mikhail was out of sight. He said, “Just use some bleach, give it a good clean.”

“Yeah, you gotta be so careful though. Some of the CSI shit they can do these days, blow your mind. Eh, Marsh? Get blood out of anywhere, can’t they?”

Marshall said, “They can.”

“See. Nothing for it, you’ll just have to get me a new car.”

Lloyd checked his cuff links. He said, “What, you angling for a new Ferrari or something?”

“Yeah, Ferrari would actually be kinda good. SUV’s hard with the chair ’cause I gotta reach down so far to pick it up, you know.”

“Just go to the gym more. Do some weights.”

Jimmy took a right on Ninth, left on Broadway, southbound again. The old buildings through Noho tight on the curb, leaning in for a view. Marshall took a look over the back of the seat. The guy’s breathing quick and shallow, scalp white beneath his hair. The Beretta was silenced, so the bullet had lost its kick. It had gone in and hadn’t made it out.

Lloyd saw him looking and said, “What do you reckon, Jim. What’s a good drop-off point?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere. They’re Bensonhurst, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, I don’t know. Could drop him off down on Eighty-sixth under the bridge or something.” He put his elbow up on the door, thrummed his lip slowly, like pondering something complicated. He said, “Reminds me there’s this big park somewhere, acres and acres, some kind of farm, but it’s just full of dead bodies. Put them all sorts of places, so you can see how they rot and decompose or whatever.”

Jimmy cracked a small smile. “Is it a legit science thing, or is it some sorta wacko place?”

“How’d you mean?”

“I don’t know. Like a necrophilia resort or something.”

Lloyd laughed. He played with his window button, shot the glass up and down a couple inches. “Yeah, maybe it is. Have to check them out on Google, get a day pass for you, Jim.”

“Or a family pass. Take your dad.”

“Fuck you.”

They cut west on Houston.

Marshall said, “Let’s drop him at a hospital. We can just kick him out and run.”

Lloyd said, “That’s the second time you’ve said that.”

“Because he needs a doctor.”

Lloyd turned in his seat, expression bored. “Look, man. Being on the take means you work for us. And when you’re working for us, and you’re riding in our car, you drop the protect-and-serve bullshit, okay? Just me and Jim you need to look after. Only thing you got to worry about is if some NYPD asshole pulls us over with this guy in back, how fast can you kill them.”

Marshall didn’t answer.

“Don’t just sit there doing the hard man thing, I never know if you’ve heard me.”

Marshall looked back at him nice and steady. He had one arm laid along the sill, and he tapped a finger gently while he thought. The patient clockwork of it. Like each added second was an added tactic to some private scheme. He said, “Pretty fast.”