Cold Shot to the Heart (12 page)

It was 4:00
A.M.
She was running on adrenaline, would stay awake, catch an 8:10 Amtrak north.

“Any trouble with the guns?” she said.

“I took the MP5 apart before I dumped it. The pieces went into three different canals. The cell phones, too. Fucking Stimmer.”

She went through the money again, making three piles this time.

“That's one hundred and thirty-nine thousand, four hundred and forty each,” she said. “Before expenses.”

“Fuck that. Let him take the expenses out of his share.”

“All right.”

“Be even better if we cut him out entirely. He deserves it.”

“I know. But we're not going to.”

“Why not? That son of a bitch almost walked us both into a felony murder rap.”

“I'm as pissed as you are,” she said, “but if we give him his split, then he takes off, gets clear of here. Otherwise, he hangs around and runs the risk of getting caught, or comes after us looking for his money. Either way, he's a loose end.”

“There's another way to solve it.”

She shook her head. “No time. We'll both be out of here by morning. Florida is the last place we want to be right now.”

She looked at her watch. “Call Stimmer. Tell him we're on our way. I want to get this settled and get out of here. You still in your hotel?”

“I checked out already. My stuff's in the car. I'm ready to roll.”

“Good.” She opened her suitcase on the other bed, began rolling cash into clothes and underwear, packing them back again. When she closed the lid, she had to press on it to lock it.

“Okay,” she said. “Let's go see him.”

*   *   *

They drove past the bungalow twice. The blue pickup Stimmer was using was parked in the carport, lit by a single light over a side door. The yard was overgrown with palm trees and bamboo, the house half hidden. Light came through a jalousied front window.

“Find someplace to park, out of sight,” she said. “Couple of white people driving around this neighborhood this hour, cops'll think we're trying to score, pull us over.”

He found a spot a block away, an overgrown lot beside a boarded-up house. He killed the lights and engine.

“I should come in with you,” he said.

She shook her head. Stimmer's share of the money was in a canvas knapsack at her feet.

“I don't want any drama,” she said. “I'm going to give him the cash and leave. Way we left it, he'll be happy to see me at all. I'll meet you back here.”

“If you're not back in fifteen minutes?”

“Do whatever you think is right. But if I were you, I'd get out of here.”

She hefted the knapsack, opened the door, and got out. A soft breeze stirred the trees. It was dead quiet, moonlight filtering through the clouds. She made her way down the street, staying in the shadows, away from the streetlights.

At the bungalow, she stood beside the front window, looked around the edge of the blind. Stimmer was in there alone, sitting on the couch, wearing a white muscle T-shirt, his head in his hands.

She moved to the carport, checked the truck. The cab was empty. Nothing in the bed except a tire iron and a length of chain.

The top panes on the jalousied side door were open and screenless. She tapped the frame twice. Insects buzzed around the light. A lizard scurried across the stucco wall.

Stimmer loomed up on the other side of the glass. He peered out at her, then undid the locks, opened the door.

“Hey,” he said. “Come on in.”

There was a wedge of cotton in his left nostril, distorting his nose. His right eye was bloodshot. He locked the door again.

She looked around the kitchen. On the counter was a can of Comet and a washcloth.

“You scrubbed your hands,” she said. “That's good.”

He went past her into the living room, sat heavily on the couch. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, looked up at her.

“I don't know what got into me. I panicked. I thought he had a gun.”

She set the knapsack on the coffee table.

“Your third,” she said. “Just shy of a hundred and forty K. We decided the expenses come out of your share, given the circumstances.”

“I fucked up,” he said. “I know. I'm sorry.” It was hot in there, and she could smell him, a thick, almost animal odor. Adrenaline and sweat.

“I don't like getting caught in the middle of someone else's drama,” she said. “Having a lot of planning go to waste because someone lost their shit.”

“I understand. I don't know what to say.”

“Nothing to say. There's your money.”

He got up, went past her into the kitchen.

“I hate to leave it like this,” he said. “Let me get you something. A beer. Some water.”

“I'll be going.”

He opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of Heineken, twisted the top off.

“Remember to wipe this place down for fingerprints before you leave,” she said. “Everything.”

“I will. Where's Chance?” He sipped beer, the refrigerator still open.

“See you around,” she said, and started for the door.

“Wait a second.”

When she turned, he had the beer in his left hand, a black automatic in his right. He pointed it at her.

“Best-laid plans, huh?” he said. “What's that you always say? ‘Nothing for it'?”

He put the bottle on the counter.

“Don't be stupid,” she said. “Don't make things worse.”

She reached for the doorknob. He cocked the gun.

“Where is he?”

She met his eyes.

“You're not half as tough as you think you are,” he said. “I put a bullet through your knee, that money's not going to seem so important.”

Stay calm, she thought, feeling foolish, angry she had walked into this, let it happen. A mistake Wayne would never have made.

“I'm guessing he's somewhere nearby,” Stimmer said. “Looking at his watch. If I keep you here long enough, he'll come looking for you. Even quicker if he hears shots. One way or another, I'll get that money.”

She looked at the gun, then at his eyes. He lowered the muzzle to her crotch.

“I could start there,” he said. “See how that feels. This thing doesn't make much noise, and in this neighborhood, no one would give a shit anyway.”

He shut the refrigerator door. “I'm guessing you two were getting ready to book. Probably as soon as you settled up with me. So odds are he's got the rest of the money with him, right?”

“Wrong.”

“If it's not here, it's close. We can cut a deal. You for the money. Come back inside, sit down. Let's talk.”

She didn't move. He pointed the gun at her forehead.

“You want it this way, Crissa, that's the way it'll be. I'll put you down right here, wait for Chance to show up, then start all over with him.”

If he was going to kill you, he would have done it already, she thought. He won't do anything until he gets the money.

“Go on,” he said. He cocked his head at the living room.

“He won't go for it,” she said. “No reason to. He's probably miles away from here already.” Wondering if it was true.

“I bet not. Go on, sit down.”

He backed away, kept the gun on her as she went past. She moved around the coffee table and sat on the couch, looked around. The louvered panes in the front door were closed tight, the door bolted and chained. All the blinds were drawn.

He followed her in, plucked the bloody cotton from his nostril, flicked it at her face. She batted it away.

“I ought to do you right now,” he said. “For putting your hands on me like that.”

A tiny lizard ran from beneath the couch, crossed the room, and disappeared under the bedroom door. Stimmer stepped back so he had an angle on both the front and side doors. The gun was still pointed at her.

“How long should we give him?” he said.

“He's not coming.”

“Then take a good look around this room. It's the last one you'll ever see. Because if I—”

The side door exploded, glass flying in. Something hit the floor and slid along it. The tire iron.

Stimmer turned, pointing the gun at the door, and she kicked the table with both heels, sent it into his shins, knocking him off balance. The gun went off, the shot punching a hole in the side of the refrigerator. She bent, grabbed the table legs, lifted it like a shield and barreled into him, putting her weight behind it. She kept her head down, drove him hard across the room and into the wall, heard the breath go out of him.

The gun fell to the floor. She kicked at it, missed. The front door rattled in its frame, panes of glass falling in to break on the floor.

Stimmer shoved back hard, and she let the table fall, bent for the gun. He swung at her, caught the side of her jaw, and she fell back, landed on top of the gun. She got her legs up to kick at him, and he grabbed her calf, twisted hard, then fell on her with all his weight, drove the breath from her.

Behind him, she saw the front door fly open, the chain broken, Chance coming in.

Stimmer caught her throat with one hand, cocked the other back to hit her. His eyes were wild. She drove the heel of her right hand into his nose, snapped his head back, and then Chance was looming over them, swinging something. Stimmer went over with a soft “Ugh,” his weight coming off her. She kicked him away, scrambled across the floor, got to her feet.

“You okay?” Chance said. He had a foot on Stimmer's back, pinning him there. A leather slapjack dangled from his hand. Stimmer wasn't moving.

“Yeah.” Her legs were unsteady, and the left side of her face was numb. She touched it, and pain jetted through her jaw.

Chance bent, picked up Stimmer's gun. He stuck the slapjack in a hip pocket, checked the gun, then aimed it at the back of Stimmer's head.

“Don't,” she said.

He looked at her. Stimmer groaned.

“Not here,” she said.

“Why not?”

“We can't leave the body here, and we won't have time to get rid of it.”

“Same canals I put the guns in.”

“No time.”

He took the gun away. “We can't just leave him like this.”

“We don't need to kill him. Just slow him down, give him something to think about.”

He stuck the gun in his belt, got his keys out, and tossed them to her.

“Go get the car, bring it around front,” he said. “I'll handle it.”

He took the slapjack back out, looked down at Stimmer, and then bent over him. His arm rose and fell. Stimmer groaned again, then went silent.

She picked up the knapsack, went out the front door. Behind her, she could hear the sound of weighted leather on flesh. Chance grunting with each blow, Stimmer not making any noise at all.

*   *   *

She waited with the lights off, the engine running. Chance came out of the darkness of the side yard, opened the passenger door, and got in. She pulled away.

“How'd you leave him?” she said.

“He won't walk too well for a while. And I did his ribs pretty good. He could die from that, I guess, if we're lucky.”

To the east, dawn was a red glow on the horizon.

“Find a bridge somewhere,” he said. “I need to get rid of this gun and the slapjack. And we should whack up the rest of that money.”

“That'll be simple,” she said. “Sixty-nine thousand, seven hundred and twenty each.” That would bring her split to $209,160.

“What time's your train?” he said.

“Eight ten.”

“No problem.”

They drove back toward Fort Lauderdale in silence. She lowered the visor, checked her face in the mirror. There was a faint bruise on the left side of her jaw, finger marks on her neck. Makeup would hide them.

“You know,” he said, “we may have taken him out of commission for a while, but he won't give up. Way we left it, sooner or later he'll come looking for us.”

“Let him,” she said.

*   *   *

She got into New York the next day, tired and sore, her jaw aching. She'd slept fitfully on the train, her legs restless.

She carried her suitcase and shoulder bag through Penn Station, rode the escalator up into a bitter wind. A street-corner Santa rang his bell over a red plastic chimney. She dropped a five in, joined the line of people at the taxi stand.

Twenty minutes later, she was in her apartment, ears still stinging from the cold. She was exhausted but too wired to sleep. She left the bags in the living room, opened a bottle of wine. She filled a glass, carried it into the bedroom, and booted up the laptop.

A Google search on “Fort Lauderdale” and “robbery” brought her to the
South Florida Sun-Sentinel
Web site. The story was the third down on the Local News page:
NEW JERSEY MAN KILLED IN BROWARD HOLDUP
. The story was bare bones, five paragraphs, no quotes. A Louis Letteri of Belleville, New Jersey, had been shot to death in an armed robbery at the La Paloma hotel in Fort Lauderdale Beach. There was no mention of a card game. Police were seeking witnesses.

She sipped wine, ran another search on “Louis Letteri,” came up with nothing.

When she went back into the living room to refill her glass, the black cat with the torn ear was at the window. It had come up the fire escape, was perched on the ledge, watching her.

It backed away when she neared the window. She undid the locks, pushed up the sash and storm window.

“You might as well come in,” she said. “The damage is done.”

The cat leaped from the sill to the floor, brushed against her legs. It moved around the room, evaluating its surroundings. She shut the window, locked it.

When she turned, the cat was lying on the futon, watching her warily.

You've got the right idea, she thought. Grab a warm place to sleep when you can, but don't trust anyone too much.