Cut and Run (13 page)

Ten seconds passed and Whit said, ‘Are you trying to figure out which one I am?’

‘You’re Whitman,’ she said. Her voice was a low, gravelly alto, roughened. She coughed once, cleared her throat. Put a hand
up to her mouth as if stifling a hiccup, then back down again. Staring at him. Her mouth was open slightly, a little wet.
‘You’re Whitman.’

‘I’m impressed,’ Whit said.

‘I’ll sit up at the counter,’ Gooch said. ‘Let y’all talk.’ Whit rose, Gooch scooted out, Whit sat back down and the whole
time she never took her eyes from Whit.

Whit folded his hands on the table.

‘You’ve got a nasty bruise on your face.’ Her voice was flat, not motherly.

‘Got one and gave one back. To your buddy Bucks.’

‘Good for you.’ She swallowed. Outside the rain pelted down harder, a cloudburst flowering, water puddling by the curbs, a
laughing trio of Rice students running and screaming through the rain toward their car.

‘I figured,’ Whit said, ‘that when you saw me you were either going to run in shame, tell me you never want to see me or my
brothers again, or say you’re sorry.’

She rubbed at her temples. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You didn’t even deny who you are. I guess that was the other option.’

She sipped at her coffee, set the mug down carefully. Her hand shook; she covered it with her other hand. ‘Denial would be
pointless. You’ve found me. Congratulations.’

The waitress stopped across from their table, grabbing
a fresh pot from the coffee stand, filled a carafe, set it on their table.

‘Don’t you want to know how? Or why?’ Whit asked. He kept his voice quiet.

‘Not right now, Whitman. I’m trying to collect my thoughts. Catch my breath.’ She tried to smile.

‘I go by Whit.’

‘Whit. Sure. Your father was never that crazy about the name Whitman, even though it was from his family.’

‘He grew to like it.’

‘May I touch your hand?’ she asked unexpectedly.

He hesitated. He had not imagined physical contact, but shock and rejection and angry words hitting like missiles. ‘Why?’

‘I would just like to touch you.’

Heat surged in the back of his eyes, in his throat, in his stomach. ‘Okay.’

She put her hand on top of his. Not holding. Touching. Her hands were worn, but her nails were freshly manicured, painted
a mild red, and a good-sized diamond glittered on her left hand.

‘Are you glad I found you?’ he asked.

‘I have mixed emotions about it. But not because of you.’

He didn’t understand her comment, so he let it pass, his long-considered game plan of what to say evaporating in the heat
of the moment’s reality. ‘I always figured this would happen on
Oprah
, Unexpected reunions.’

‘We’re more
Jerry Springer
,’ she said and it made him laugh for a moment.

Her lemon pie arrived; the waitress set it down by their joined hands; Whit said he didn’t need anything, thank you, as she
took out her order pad. She left them alone.

‘How is your father?’ Eve asked. ‘Your brothers?’

‘Wow, a sudden bout of caring.’ He knew the words sounded ugly but he couldn’t help himself.

‘What else am I supposed to ask you, Whit?’ she said. ‘Your opinion on the Middle East? Your favorite TV show? Whether you
prefer wine or beer?’

‘I’m not much for drinking,’ Whit said. ‘Daddy drank himself sick for years after you left.’

‘Is he still drinking?’

‘No. But he’s dying. Cancer. He has four months, max. That’s why I wanted to find you.’

She digested this news in silence. ‘You sent a man looking for me.’

‘Yes. A private investigator.’

She released a long, wobbly breath. She put her other hand over her eyes but now she took his hand, squeezed his fingers.
‘Fortyish? Dark hair, a little rumpled, looked like a schoolteacher?’

‘Yes. You saw him?’

‘Yes.’ Now she looked at him. ‘I saw him once.’ She reached for her coffee, drank it down. When he said nothing more, she
said, ‘I’m truly sorry about your father. And to see you … I’m happy to see you. More than you could ever know, baby. But
this is a bad time.’

‘There’s no good time, is there? In your line of work.’

‘Whit.’ Her voice shook. ‘What do you know about me?’

‘You work for Tommy Bellini.’

‘I’m in trouble. I may need to leave town very quickly.’

‘You’re not going to do that.’ He clutched her hand. ‘You’re coming back with me to Port Leo. See my father. Apologize to
him before he dies. See my brothers. They’re all well. Happy.’

‘I can’t. I can’t.’

‘You have grandchildren,’ Whit said. ‘Beautiful
grandchildren. Four of them. Teddy has three girls, Joe has a little boy.’

Her lips thinned; her eyes filled. ‘I can’t, please don’t ask this of me.’

‘You can. Please.’ Suddenly a truth pierced his heart, a certainty he hadn’t known before. ‘They’ll forgive you. In time.
If you get to know them, let them know you.’

‘I would put your family in danger, Whit. People want me dead.’

‘All the more reason to come with me then.’

‘You have no idea of the trouble I’m in.’

‘What if I helped you?’

‘You don’t know what you’re saying.’ She reached for his cheek but then put her hand back atop his. ‘Seeing you means everything
to me. But you don’t want this trouble, baby. You can’t handle it.’

‘Don’t call me baby. And I can.’

‘Oh, tough guy because you survived a black eye? These people will cut off your dick. Shove it down your throat. Rape you
with a broomstick.’ Eve let the ugly words hang between them. ‘I don’t want you stepping one foot in this world.’

‘I’m not walking away from you. We could call the police, get you protection.’

‘No,’ she said, her voice a strained whisper. ‘It never works well enough. They’d find me, kill me.’ She withdrew her hand.
‘Go have a good life, Whit. Tell your brothers I’m glad they’re happy. I’m sorry for Babe, I truly am.’ She put her purse
in her lap, glanced out the window. The showers had lessened in the last minute, the storm taking a breath, and a Lincoln
Navigator eased past the restaurant, slowing for a car about to pull out from a parking slot.

‘You changed soaps,’ Whit said. ‘You don’t smell of gardenia any more.’

She froze. ‘What?’

‘That’s really my best memory of you. Gardenia. Your neck always smelled of it.’

She wiped tears from her eyes, her mouth trembled.

‘I need more from you than the smell of soap. I really don’t want you to leave,’ Whit said. ‘If I ask Gooch, he’ll toss you
over his shoulder, throw you in his van, and drive you all the way to Port Leo, Ellen.’

‘Eve. No one calls me Ellen.’

‘Eve,’ he said, as though tasting the word. ‘Look at me. I want to know exactly what’s happening. Exactly. Otherwise I’m going
to go to the police and—’

The window exploded.

Whit hit the floor in front of the booth, airborne chunks of pie and a gush of hot coffee flying around him, shards of glass
bursting in from the barrage of gunfire. His mother screamed. She was cut or shot, trying to get down into the well of the
booth, blood streaking her face. Whit grabbed her shoulders and dragged her below the window line into the mess of gunshot
pie and pooling coffee and water.

The gunfire stopped.

Screams wailed around them, ranging from full-out shrieks to hiccuping moans of terror. The party girls were facedown on the
floor or huddled in the leather womb of their booth, the window by them cracked and webbed. The waitress lay sprawled by Whit,
a shattered plate still in her hand, eyes open and still, gray hair dislodged from a bun, her throat a wet wound.

‘Back door,’ Eve said. ‘Run …’

He clutched her head to him, searching for the wound. ‘You’re shot.’

‘No, oh no,’ she said. Her eyes went wide.

Then people started running, a mad stampede out of the restaurant, toward the front doors.

Whit pulled Eve toward the swinging doors of the kitchen and his mind registered Gooch, his gun drawn from a back holster
under his jacket, jumping from booth top to booth top, heading for them, and a man, swarthy, rushing the window, jabbing the
remaining cracked glass out of his way, swinging the eye of a semiautomatic toward him and Eve.

The gunman paused to smile – a smile that said
you’re so fucked –
and the gesture cost him because the next bullet fired came from Gooch’s Sig Sauer and the gunman fell back.

‘Back door,’ Eve said again, crawling past the dead waitress, pushing Whit along. He grabbed her, rammed through the swinging
doors as the gunman, either hit or not, blasted off another round. Whit, Eve, and Gooch landed on the cool tile of the kitchen,
the cooks and bakers mostly gone, one girl babbling into a wall phone. Whit got Eve to her feet, followed two terrified dishwashers
barreling toward a fire exit.

As he reached the door, the dense, staccato thrum of gunfire hit pots and pans and countertops. A hard gong sounded, a bullet
striking the exit door north of his head. Gooch returned fire and Whit shoved Eve out the door. The kitchen staff scrambled
through the parking lot, running, yelling in Spanish.

Gooch’s van was parked near the rear of the lot and Whit steered Eve toward it. He glanced back. Gooch had taken cover near
a Dumpster, gun leveled at the back door. Waiting.

More shooting inside. Whit pushed Eve through a line of cars, putting vehicles between them and the door. ‘Gooch!’ he screamed.
‘Get out, come on …’

The gunman came out the door, holding the young woman who’d been on the wall phone as a human shield. Gooch didn’t lower his
gun.

The cops will be here in thirty seconds,’ Gooch called. ‘Let her go.’

‘We want Eve!’

Eve and Whit ducked down by a red pickup truck. Her hand tightened on his.

‘You hit Eve, man,’ Gooch called, ‘and she’s bleeding bad.’ From his vantage point the gunman couldn’t see if Eve was with
him or not. In the distance police sirens began to shriek in their approach.

Then a Lincoln Navigator wheeled around the restaurant. The gunman shoved the young woman to the pavement and dashed toward
the car.

He made it three steps and Gooch gave him a bullet for each. He skittered a little dance, collapsing before the open door
of the Navigator. The SUV sped onto Kirby, door still open, rumbled into a shopping center parking lot and hard-turned onto
a side street.

The girl ran back into the restaurant, and Gooch sprinted from the Dumpster toward them.

‘Go,’ he yelled. ‘Now.’

‘The guy …’

‘He’s dead, Whit. We got to get out of here.’

‘We can’t leave,’ Whit started. ‘This is a crime scene … that waitress is dead …’

‘We have to.’

‘But …’ Whit almost said
I’m a judge, I can’t do this
, but if his mother heard that, she’d take off running herself.

‘You want the cops to take in your mom? Because they will when they find out her connection to this,’ Gooch said. ‘Find her,
lose her, all in short order.’

Whit pulled Eve into the back of the van with him and Gooch powered up the engine, tore out the back of the parking lot onto
a feeder street that ran parallel to Kirby, vanishing with a right into a residential neighborhood,
and was two blocks away by the time the police cars and ambulances tore into the lot, red and blue lights making the broken
windows glitter like diamonds.

‘Hospital,’ Whit ordered Gooch. ‘Now.’

‘No,’ Eve said. ‘I’m not hurt, Whit. I’m okay.’

‘No hospital,’ Gooch said. ‘At least for now.’

They headed back to Charlie Fulgham’s house, ten minutes away from the restaurant; back down lower Kirby, cutting through
the quiet of the big old houses of West University Place, taking a winding route along tree-shaded roads with names like Tulane
and Rutgers and Loyola. Gooch drove at the speed limit and came to a complete stop at every sign. West University Place police
were notorious for ticketing for the smallest traffic infraction.

Eve lay on her back in the van. Whit pulled off his blue shirt, mopped her head free of blood. The wound in her scalp wasn’t
too big, probably from flying glass, but had bled with the flooding tendency of head wounds.

They hurried her inside, Gooch parking the van at the rear of Charlie Fulgham’s driveway, out of sight of the street. Charlie
sat in his kitchen, drinking a beer and flipping through a copy of
Texas Bar Journal
, marking stories with a red pen, when they staggered in.

‘What the hell happened?’ Charlie stared at Eve and Whit’s bloodied shirt.

‘First-aid kit?’ Gooch asked.

‘Yeah. Here.’ Charlie rummaged in the back of the kitchen pantry, pulled out a little plastic case that seemed wholly inadequate
to stitch up the carnage of the past fifteen minutes. ‘You want me to call 911?’

‘No,’ Gooch said. ‘We’ll tend to her.’

‘This is my mother,’ Whit said. Weird, the words of
introduction coming from his mouth, never spoken before. ‘Eve, this is Charlie Fulgham. Our host.’

‘Hi,’ Eve said.

‘Uh, hi,’ Charlie said. Eve gave him a weak smile, her shoulders still shaking. Now, in clear light, Whit saw she had a score
of small cuts and abrasions on her hands, her arms. His hands, too, and a sharp sting lashed his forehead.

They didn’t follow us,’ Gooch said to Whit. The guys or the cops.’

‘Gooch,’ Charlie said. ‘Let’s talk, you and me, in the living room, as in right now.’

‘Sure,’ Gooch said. Calm. Like he hadn’t shot another person to death a few minutes before.

Whit swabbed at Eve’s wound with a wet washcloth, took scissors from the kit and clipped away the graying hair close to her
cut. The wound was not bad, but it needed closing. He sprayed disinfectant on it and she winced. He cleaned and taped the
wound shut, covering it with a strip of gauze.

‘You need a stitch or two.’ He shook two ibuprofen painkillers into her open palm. ‘We could make up a story, take you to
an emergency room. You should see a doctor.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Paul will have those watched closely now.’

‘He can’t watch every hospital in Houston.’

‘Sure he can,’ Eve said. Gooch returned to the kitchen, without Charlie, still holding his gun. ‘He tracked you two to the
Pie Shack.’

‘Or he tracked you,’ Gooch said.

‘Not hardly,’ she said. ‘Nicky and his driver wouldn’t have let me reach you if they were tailing me. They would have taken
me at first sight. I’m surprised they didn’t grab
me in the lot … I must’ve come in on the other side of them circling around the diner.’

‘Bucks must’ve ordered us followed,’ Whit said.

‘No,’ Gooch said, ‘I would have spotted the tail.’

There was a silence in the room, except for the distant sound of a television sparking to life in the living room. ‘Or not,’
Eve said. ‘Are you infallible?’

‘Practically,’ he said in a cool voice.

‘Practically isn’t going to be good enough. Paul and Bucks can hire as much muscle as they want to get me. They simply have
to offer a cut of the five million and I’ve got an instant megabounty on my head.’ She shook her head at Gooch. ‘I hope you
have an army to back you up, Gooch. Paul will hunt you down like a dog for killing Nicky.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Gooch said. ‘I hope I get to save your sorry ass again tomorrow.’

‘Stop.’ Whit sat down, closed his eyes. ‘Is Charlie upset?’ he asked Gooch.

‘No. I gave him three dollars. Retainer. All three of us are his clients as of this moment. Commit all the crimes you want.’

‘Clients?’ Eve asked.

‘He’s a top defense lawyer, Eve,’ Gooch said.

She stood. ‘No. Nobody else knows anything about me, all right? I don’t want a lawyer.’

‘Sit down, please,’ Whit said and after a moment she did. ‘Gooch, what did you tell him?’

‘That there are bad guys after Eve, but for him not to worry. He’s cool,’ Gooch said.

‘He’s going to kick us out.’

‘I said, he’s cool. Come here a second, Whit.’

Whit followed Gooch into Charlie’s den. In the corner was a gun vault, with an array of rifles, pistols, and
knives. Several weapons were shining with fresh polish, others looked antique and unusable. Charlie glanced at Whit and Gooch.
He had been looking out the back window, not watching the TV.

‘Good God,’ Whit said.

The people I used to defend were scum,’ Charlie said. ‘This was my security blanket if they got mad at me.’

‘Charlie, I’m sorry. We don’t want to drag you into trouble,’ Whit said.

‘Whatever Gooch needs,’ Charlie said, ‘Gooch gets.’

‘I once did a big favor for Charlie. Private business,’ Gooch said.

Whit started to ask and Charlie shook his head. ‘Go to your mother, Whit. We’ll talk when you’re done.’

Gooch followed Whit back to the kitchen. Whit wadded up his bloodied shirt. Eve watched him. ‘Sorry about your shirt,’ she
said.

‘It’s okay.’

Now she stood, came to his chair, knelt by him. ‘Your eye, it needs ice. And you’re cut—’

Gooch, with a slight smile, aimed his gun at Eve. She didn’t move, didn’t blink. ‘Very touching, Florence Nightingale.’

‘Gooch,’ Whit said. ‘Stop.’

‘Tell all, Eve,’ Gooch said. ‘How will they come after us? Why are they shooting at you, if you’re so high and mighty in the
organization? What’s this about five million you owe them?’

‘Gooch, put that down!’ Whit said.

‘Honey, you don’t scare me,’ Eve said. ‘If you were going to shoot me, you could have shot me back at the diner.’ She closed
her hands around Whit’s knees.

‘Listen closely,’ Gooch said. ‘I’m not your son. I’m not emotionally shredded about you the way Whit is.’

‘Psychoanalysis from you? That’s like a surgical lecture
from Jack the Ripper,’ Whit said. ‘You are way out of line, Leonard. Sit your ass down over there and take that gun off her.’

‘Whit,’ Gooch said softly. ‘You don’t see what I see.’

‘I see you putting down that gun and sitting your butt down. Now.’

Gooch lowered the gun.

Eve watched him. ‘I like you, Gooch. You don’t mess around, do you?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘I’d like a glass of water, Whit,’ Eve said. ‘It’s a long story.’

‘Story, then drink,’ Gooch said.

‘She bled, Gooch, she’s thirsty.’ Whit went to the counter, filled a glass with ice and water, set it down in front of her.

‘You forgot the lemon slice,’ Gooch said. ‘And the lace doily.’

‘Turn it down, please,’ Whit said, thinking,
You killed a man, Gooch, and you don’t seem remotely bothered by it
The depth to which he still did not know or understand his best friend gave him a tremble along his ribs.

‘I see we’ve already picked teams,’ Gooch said.

‘You’re not helping,’ Whit said.

‘Helping. Who saved your ass tonight and who put it in danger? Do I need to draw flash cards for you?’

‘Thank you,’ Whit said.

‘Thank you, Gooch,’ Eve said. ‘Not so much for me. For Whit.’

‘Sell it to Hallmark,’ Gooch said.

‘I’ll answer your questions,’ Eve said. ‘Since you’ve asked so nicely. And because you can take Whit and get out of this mess,
right now.’ She took a long sip of cold water. She told the story in its entirety: from Paul’s determination to cut a big
deal to keep his throne and
make the Bellinis more powerful, her assignment to get five million in clean cash to pay off Kiko, Frank’s skimming and Paul’s
warning to her, the stranger’s unexpected arrival at the exchange site, Eve fleeing then returning and finding the men dead
and the five million in cash gone, and Bucks’ subsequent chase of her.

‘He was your PI, wasn’t he, honey? I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.’

At the mention of Harry’s death, Whit put his face in his hands. The kitchen was quiet. From the den came the hushed voices
of the TV, Charlie flipping through the local stations to see if there were any reports about the Pie Shack shooting. Lazy
rain pittered against the darkened windows.

‘I shouldn’t have had Harry try to contact you,’ Whit said. ‘Holy God, what have I done?’ He thought of Claudia, back in Port
Leo, her friend now dead, trying to imagine a way to tell her, wanting to tell her before anyone else did but not knowing
how he would explain it.

This isn’t your fault, Whit,’ Eve said. ‘It was the wrong place at the wrong time. Harry must have followed me there.’ She
reached out, touched his leg. Gooch made a snorting sound. Whit put his hands down.

‘You say Bucks killed Harry and Doyle. And has the money,’ Whit said.

‘Yes,’ Eve said. ‘Bucks either wants it for himself or wants Paul to fail so he can take over.’

‘So what happens to the deal now?’ Whit said.

‘It doesn’t happen,’ Eve said. ‘Without that money.’

Whit refilled his mother’s glass with ice cubes and water, set it down in front of her. ‘Before we were attacked, you told
me you wouldn’t go to the police. Now innocent people are dead. We have to call the police. Or have Charlie call them.’

‘Nicky killed the waitress, Gooch killed Nicky. Isn’t that justice?’ Eve said. ‘Of course, Gooch here might not want to deal
with courts.’ Her voice almost sounded hopeful.

‘Not a worry,’ Whit said. ‘It was self-defense.’

‘Not how the court of Paul Bellini will view it,’ she said. ‘You kill one of his guys, you die. There’s no plea bargaining.’

‘So I kill Paul Bellini if I have to,’ Gooch said.

‘You don’t kill anyone else, Gooch,’ Whit said. ‘And Eve, you and me go to the police and you tell them everything you know.
They get you into the witness protection program …’

She laughed. ‘No, no, no. That’s worthless. I’m not getting a new name, a bad hairdo, and a nice split-level in Boise to spend
the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. I testify, I’m dead. They find you.’

‘What makes you think you have a choice?’ Whit said.

‘Ah. So this is the revenge on me for being a bad mother?’ She shrugged. ‘You can call the police, Whit, but you do and I’m
not saying another word. Your testimony about the money is hearsay.’

‘Harry Chyme was a man I liked,’ Whit said. ‘I liked him more than I like you. And he died because I wanted to find you.’

‘It’s not my fault.’

‘But it’s your problem, Eve. Don’t threaten me with what you will and won’t do. I’m telling you what you’ll do.’

‘There’s my boy,’ Gooch said.

‘You gonna tell the cops Gooch killed a guy and fled the scene? Stops sounding like self-defense then,’ she said.

‘Still a bigger risk for you, sweetheart,’ Gooch said.

‘Why save me then put the screws to me?’ Eve turned to Whit. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘I’m not letting Bucks get away with Harry’s murder. You may be more casual in your attitude.’ And he thought again of the
man she had possibly left Port Leo for those long years ago, the dead man in Montana. The so-called suicide. He tried to imagine
her killing a man, sitting hunched in her rumpled, wet suit, with a bandage awkwardly taped to her head, her makeup smeared
by the rain and him having wiped up her blood.

‘You wanted to meet me, right? That’s the reason you came looking for me. Or was it to bully me? Blackmail me?’

‘I don’t understand.’

She glanced at Gooch. ‘Gooch mentioned James Powell when he called me, said you would put the Montana police on me.’

‘Yeah. It was my idea,’ Whit said.

She looked at him with disappointment. ‘Oh, Whit. I didn’t kill James Powell,’ Eve said. ‘He killed himself.’

‘And you got custody of the money?’ Gooch said.

‘What money?’ she asked.

‘I don’t give a rat’s ass about James Powell,’ Whit said. ‘I wanted to find you so I could bring you back to Port Leo. To
see my father before he dies. I’m not trying to screw you over.’

She crossed her arms. ‘Fine. I’ll go. You and Babe and the rest of the boys can tell me, to my face, what a sorry mother I
was and I’ll take it without blinking. But I only go on my own terms.’

‘Don’t negotiate with her, Whit,’ Gooch said.

‘Let’s hear these terms,’ Whit said.

‘I have to get my name cleared with Paul. He has to know I didn’t take the money. That means either proving Bucks took it
or finding the money and returning it to Paul. Otherwise, I’m dead. And I’m not spending the rest of my life on the run, Whit.’

‘Because you’re a homebody now,’ Gooch said.

‘Leave us alone for a moment, Gooch. Please,’ Whit said.

Gooch, without a word, got up and left.

‘I need a friend like him,’ Eve said. ‘He’s your personal pit bull. You’re lucky.’

‘So you want our help.’

She wiped the traces of lipstick away from her mouth. ‘I don’t want you in danger, Whit. But I have nowhere to turn. Frank
is not going to stick out his neck to help me. Bucks has framed me, beautifully. And no one believes me. I can’t do this on
my own.’

‘Fine. Then we call the police.’ He had to try it again.

‘In which case I say nothing, I don’t go back to Port Leo with you, and Gooch takes his chances with the Harris County legal
system.’ She shrugged and opened the first-aid kit. ‘Let me tend your cuts.’ He let her, his back stiffening at her touch
as she dabbed ointment on his skin.

‘You didn’t cry much when you got skinned as a kid. Not like Mark,’ she said. ‘He screamed like a cut banshee.’

‘Don’t go down Memory Lane with me. You don’t have a ticket.’

‘Look, I’m not going to be June Cleaver.’ She got up, filled a baggie with ice, wrapped a towel around it. She handed him
the ice pack, sat back down across from him.