Deal with the Dead (19 page)

Chapter Twenty-four

“You okay?”

Driscoll heard the words coming to him as if he were lying far below the surface of the earth—at the bottom of a pit, maybe. The place they toss your carcass when you’re too old, too slow to run with the herd any longer.

“Come on, now. Talk to me, man.”

Driscoll realized his cheeks were being slapped. Whoever was doing it was trying to be gentle, but it was like Driscoll trying to whisper, or dance the minuet.

“I’m okay,” he managed. “Cut it out, already.” He blinked his eyes, saw that he wasn’t at the bottom of a pit at all. There was the shadow of a burnt-out light stanchion looming over him, outlined like a curious Martian against the dim glow of the night sky. The distant reaches of the parking lot of Osvaldo’s building, he realized. There was someone with him, too. Somebody with one hand propping him up, another hand still batting his cheeks.

“Cut the crap,” he said. He got a handful of the guy’s shirt front, was trying to pull him down.

“Take it easy,” the guy said, brushing Driscoll’s groping hand away as if it were a child’s. “It’s me. It’s Russell Straight.”

Driscoll lay still a minute, doing his best to gather his thoughts. “What happened?” he managed finally. “Where the hell’d you come from?”

“You’re lucky I was here, my man. Those guys saw me coming and took off. Elsewise, you might be dead.”

Driscoll glanced around. Sure enough, there was his Ford a few feet away, the driver’s door still gaping open. Like the damned thing was embarrassed for him, he thought.

He got a hand beneath himself, pushed against the gritty pavement. He managed a sitting position and felt at his throat, raw from where the goon had choked him. At least the dizziness had evaporated. He glanced through the darkness at Straight, who still squatted beside him. “You been following me, Russell?”

Straight shrugged. “I came over to Deal’s place. I needed to talk to him. But I don’t see his car. Then you show up and go inside his place. When you take off again, I figure I’ll follow you, see what the hell you’re up to.”

Driscoll pinched the bridge of his nose. “You saw me go into my own apartment, dumb-ass.”

“I’d watch my mouth, I was you,” Russell said evenly.

“I live there,” Driscoll continued. “Deal’s my landlord.”

There was a moment. Driscoll saw Straight’s shoulders go up in a shrug. “I guess that makes you
really
lucky, then,” he said.

Driscoll rose to one knee, then felt Straight’s hand under his arm. “I can manage,” Driscoll grumbled.

“Sure you can,” Straight said. “I just happen to be here, that’s all.”

Driscoll was standing now. He felt his head teeter for a moment, then settle back between his shoulders where it belonged. “You get a look at these two guys?” he said to Straight.

“More or less,” Straight said. “It’s pretty dark back here.”

“How about the car they were driving?”

“Other side of that wall,” Straight said, pointing.

Driscoll saw a vine-covered cinder-block wall running along the border of the parking lot. There was another apartment complex over there, with its own exits and entrances to a different set of streets.

“I heard tires squeal, a big engine cranking,” Russell continued. “I was more interested in what happened to you.”

Driscoll nodded. “I appreciate it,” he said.

“What was it I interrupted, anyway?” Russell asked.

Driscoll looked at him. “Couple of asswipes wanted my wallet,” he said.

“Uh-huh,” Straight said. “How come you still got it, then?”

Driscoll felt in his pocket. “Just lucky, I guess.”

“Whatever you say,” Straight told him.

“What was so important to tell Deal, you couldn’t wait till tomorrow?” Driscoll asked.

“Tell you what,” Straight said. “You want to be up-front with me, maybe I’ll be up-front with you. Elsewise, we’re at squares.”

Driscoll hesitated. By all appearances, Russell Straight might have just saved his life. On the other hand, Driscoll hardly knew the man, had no idea what his true agenda might be.

“I was on my way to get a beer,” he said finally, his hand rubbing at his raw throat. “Maybe we could sit and talk.”

“Beer sounds good,” Straight said, his voice neutral.

“Then follow me,” Driscoll said, and moved as steadily as he could manage toward the Ford.

Chapter Twenty-five

“
You’re John Deal
?”
the
big man asked, moving into the glow cast by the countertop light.

“Who the hell are you?” Deal asked, gauging his options. He’d been expecting Sams or, more likely, Tasker. And while Tasker was no pipsqueak, the man before him was huge,
Wrestlemania
huge, his bulk filling the passage between the end of the counter and the facing cabinetry.

The big man, who must have come through the opened balcony doors, held up his hands in a pacifying gesture. “Don’t get yourself worked up,” he said. “Everything’s okay.” Under other circumstances, the guy might have looked benign, a round-bellied appliance repairman called out on a late-night gig.

“Everything’s okay?” Deal said, edging toward the other end of the counter. The guy was big, but he couldn’t be that fast. “Maybe you’re in the wrong apartment.”

“Not unless you are, pal.” A new voice, from behind him.

Deal spun around, found a second man—bearded, taller, thinner, but only in relation to the other one—approaching from the hallway. No escape in either direction, then. What to do now—go for one of the frying pans that dangled down from a set of ceiling hooks?

“You two work for Sams?” he managed. He knew there had to be a knife drawer somewhere in the cabinets behind him, but there was no telling which of them Janice had decided it would be.

“Uncle
Sam?” the taller man asked, an odd lilt to his voice.

“Shut up, Frank,” the big man said. He pointed at Deal. “You can take your hand out of that drawer. Right now.”

Deal stared back at the man, feeling his hand close around what felt like a balled-up pair of socks.
Jesus Christ, Janice.

“Where’re my wife and daughter?” he said, as though he hadn’t heard the man. He’d let go of the socks, had found what felt like a smallish pair of pliers. How every modern kitchen should be equipped.

“I saw two ladies headin’ out of the parking lot just before you got here,” the big man said. “Get your hand out of that drawer.”

“Sure,” Deal said. He’d found what was surely a spice bottle, had spun the cap off with his finger. The smell of curry had already risen up from behind him, but it blossomed huge as he snapped his hand upward and out, flinging the contents of the bottle toward the big man’s face.

“Goddamn!” the big man cried in pain, flinging his hands to his eyes.

The other man, the bearded one, was coming toward Deal, but he’d expected that move. Instead of ducking away, Deal strode forward, maybe a surprise for a man accustomed to having his quarry flee. Deal brought his forearm up under the onrushing man’s chin, always an option for a shorter, smaller blocker facing a too-eager pass rusher, and no one to call a penalty on this play.

The bearded guy caught the blow full force and careened into the side-by-side refrigerator, snapping off one pull handle and sending the freezer door open as he fell. A ceramic bowl full of fruit fell from the counter to the floor and smashed. Deal tried to step over the fallen man, but felt a big hand clamp on the back of his shirt.

He lunged up, caught hold of one of the dangling cooking pots, and jerked, bringing the entire rack crashing down from the ceiling. He ducked as the rack swung past him, metal clanging off steel and glass and tile like a bus going through a storefront. He heard a groan from the big guy behind him, but the grip on his shirt held fast.

Nothing had hit Deal—or if it had, he hadn’t felt it. He now had the saucepan he’d snatched by its handle and glanced down to find the thinner guy he’d put on the ground sliding around in the mess on the floor, trying to get to his feet.

Deal swung down mightily and the guy looked up just in time to catch the bottom of the pot across his cheek. There was a dull
clonging
sound that reverberated all the way to Deal’s shoulder. The pot itself cracked cleanly off its thin aluminum handle, rebounding crazily somewhere into the living room.

The thinner guy was down again, but the one behind him still had him by the shirt. If the big guy ever got both arms around him, he’d be finished, Deal thought, tossing the useless pot handle aside.

He fell forward, catching hold of a shelf on the open freezer door, but his feet were slipping in crushed orange pulp and pottery scraps, and he felt the flimsy plastic of the door shelving ready to give way in an instant. Whatever was inside the freezer had to be hard, he thought, his other hand groping the frigid interior. He just prayed he wouldn’t find celery, or lamp shades.

Nothing but frost-covered shelving as far as he could tell, however, and besides, he was going backward now, drawn inexorably by the hand of the big guy, who was still sputtering and cursing, the smell of curry everywhere. Deal caught hold of the lip of a steel freezer bin, but the thing whizzed straight out on its track, hesitating only a moment before it shot free. Something solid struck him in the chest as the shelf fell, though, and he threw up his hand reflexively to catch it.

A sufficiently rocklike handful it was, with a couple of knurls making for a firm handhold. Cornish game hen, he thought. Something he’d always hated, to Janice’s dismay. But at the moment it seemed a terrific argument for living the separate life. He raised his hand high and twisted about, bringing the frozen ball down on the crown of the big man’s head. The guy didn’t even groan as he fell.

Deal felt the grip on his shirt go slack and he spun away, heading for the hall. He hadn’t gotten past the end of the counter, though, when he felt a pair of arms around his legs. A good sure tackle, he was thinking, as he went over, his head clipping the edge of the counter.

Boil up the socks and add the curry
,
went the crazy thoughts through his star-pinging head.
You always make a mess when you cook, Johnny Deal.
He could hardly say he was sorry.
Employ pliers to pull socks from steaming
water.
Emeril Lagasse had nothing on him or Janice. What a recipe.

Serve with well-bludgeoned game hen
. Season with crushed peel of thug. He loved Janice. He loved Isabel. What a mess. And then his thoughts winked out.

Chapter Twenty-six

“
You’re going to eat
that thing?” Russell Straight asked, pointing at the plate the bartender had put in front of Driscoll.

“You think I was going to hatch it?” Driscoll asked him. He picked up the peeled, pickled-pink egg and bit down. The cool texture felt soothing against his scratchy throat. He washed the egg down with a swallow of beer, then had another bite, and a third, which completed the process.

“You are a tough guy,” Straight said, sipping at his own beer.

“That cholesterol business,” Driscoll said, “it never bothered me. I figure if you don’t challenge your heart a little, how’s it going to stay strong?”

Straight lifted his beer in response. “Let’s hope it works out for you.”

Driscoll nodded. He had another swallow of his draft, then glanced around the horseshoe-shaped bar, making sure no one was paying attention. He needn’t have bothered. This was Flaherty’s, after all. The bartender was standing at the opposite end, idly polishing a glass and watching a Heat game unfold. A couple other patrons sat down there—one guy wearing a bowling shirt, the other a Miami Heat warm-up, all of three of them cheering a Hardaway assist, a thunderous Mourning jam. Three guys who looked like they couldn’t manage a push-up among them were high-fiving like it was them who’d just scored.

There was a white-haired guy sitting closer, but he was staring at his palm through smeared glasses like Moses had chiseled the tablets there, his lips moving soundlessly—maybe he was trying to find a commandment he was still capable of breaking, Driscoll thought.

He turned back to Straight then. “You know what I was doing just before those guys jumped me?” he asked.

“Looking for a new apartment,” Straight said, not meaning it. He’d been staring at the old guy, too.

“A buddy of mine who lives in that building has a certain facility with computers. I was in his place reviewing your accomplishments as a prize fighter,” Driscoll said.

“Is that so?”

Driscoll nodded, waiting.

“Cops like to pull stuff like this, you know,” Russell Straight said, staring ahead. It looked like he saw something coming his way. He didn’t seem worried about the prospect.

“Do what?”

“Say some shit, hope a man will just jump salty, say some things he doesn’t mean to.”

Driscoll shrugged. “If you have things to talk about, then go ahead.”

“What do I have to say? If you did your business like you claim, you already know all you need to know.”

Driscoll glanced over at the old guy. He’d switched hands, seemed to be counting something off on his fingers. Driscoll turned back to Straight. “You were in the joint for killing a man, and that’s when your bad-news brother got his ticket punched. You get sprung, the first thing you do is come to Miami looking to take out your grief on John Deal, but that doesn’t go according to plan. Now you’re still hanging around. It only makes sense that I’d like to know why.”

“You Deal’s keeper, are you?”

“I’m more than that. I’m his friend.”

“Leon was my friend.”

“He did a lot for you, huh? Wrote you long letters while you were in the slam? Sent cookies?”

“I was you, I wouldn’t run my mouth about something I didn’t know.”

Something in Russell Straight’s tone caught Driscoll off guard. He paused, noticing a time-out had been called on the TV game. He signaled the bartender for another round, then turned back to Straight.

“You have no idea how I grew up,” Straight said. “Leon wasn’t there, I might not have made it.”

Driscoll nodded.

“I’ll let it go, what you said about my brother,” Russell continued. He glanced over. “This once.”

Driscoll nodded again. Say what you want about any felon, the person is always somebody’s son, somebody’s lover, somebody’s big brother. He didn’t know the particulars of the brothers Straight’s upbringing, and he didn’t want to know. Given the outcomes, he could guess. The point Russell Straight was making, Driscoll could let himself concede.

“I want to thank you again for getting me out of a jam back there,” Driscoll said at last.

Straight nodded. “We were going to talk about that.”

“Yeah,” Driscoll said. “You were going to tell me why you went to Deal’s place.”

Russell looked at him. “You like to play poker?”

Driscoll shook his head. “I work too hard for my money.”

“That’s a shame,” Straight said. “You’d be good at it.”

“What’s your fascination with John Deal?” Driscoll said.

Russell Straight took a breath, clasping his hands together. The bartender had brought them another round, but Driscoll noted Russell wasn’t halfway through his first. He seemed to be making up his mind about something. It seemed to take a while.

When he turned to face Driscoll again, his expression had cleared. “I was on my way out of town,” Straight said. “I thought I owed it to the man to tell him I was leaving town…and to thank him for what he did.”

Yeah, for not having your ass arrested
,
is what Driscoll thought. But he kept it to himself. “You went over there to quit, huh?”

“However you want to put it.”

“And then you decided to follow me?”

“We already went over that.”

“Uh-huh,” Driscoll said. “But something’s not adding up. You don’t work for me, Russell. You leave town, I’m supposed to care?”

“Here’s something to add on,” Russell said. “You’re not a cop anymore and we’re not sitting in the station house. But you want to know the truth, I thought you might be messing with the man, in which case I’d tell him about it. The other thing, maybe he sent you to his place to pick up something, you’re going to take it to him. In which case, I’d let it go. Walk up and shake his hand, say goodbye.”

“Just acting in his best interest, huh?”

“Same as you,” Straight said.

“A guy you were ready to take out a couple days ago.”

Straight shrugged. “He could have dumped a world of trouble on me. I owe the man for that.”

“You bet your life you do,” Driscoll said.

“Are we finished with that part now?” Straight asked.

Driscoll opened his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I guess we are.”

“You never told me why those guys jumped you,” Straight said.

“Yeah, I did,” Driscoll said.

“You said they wanted your jack, which is a bunch of shit.”

“A man is entitled to his own opinion,” Driscoll said.

“This is bullshit, man. I told you the truth. Now it’s your turn.”

“I had a need to know, my friend. I don’t think that applies in your case.”

“Maybe it does,” Straight said. “You been nosing into my business, maybe those guys were, too.”

“Did they look like parole officers to you?”

“I don’t know what they looked like. That’s something else we’ve been over.”

“They didn’t give a rat’s ass about you, Russell, that’s all the information you need.”

“So you say, Mr. Egg-Sucking Cop.”

Driscoll felt the muscles in his neck and shoulders knotting. “Just how good a fighter were you, Russell?”

“That what you want to find out?” Russell asked, his face impassive. Neither one of them had raised their voices by so much as a decibel. “We’re supposed to go outside. I’ll show you Thursday morning coming out your ass?”

“Dream on, my friend.” Like the poor old guy a few stools down, Driscoll had his own palm upraised now. But he wasn’t seeing commandments there. Just the calluses, and all the scars.

Russell shook his head as if the matter had lost interest for him. “You say the thing don’t have to do with me, I’ll take your word.” He glanced at Driscoll mildly. “Just do me one favor.”

Driscoll lifted an eyebrow in response.

“Someplace else John Deal could be?”

“His wife’s, maybe,” Driscoll said.

“Yeah? They split up?”

Driscoll gave him a look.

“Whatever,” Straight said. “How about you give him a call, say I wanted to get in touch, that’s all. I’ll say my goodbyes, head on out of your way, Mr. Driscoll.”

Driscoll hesitated. Russell Straight slid some coins across the bar toward him. Driscoll glanced down at them as if a toad had plopped them there. Not that he was at all sure about the man, but if all it was going to take was a phone call to get rid of him, it was a small price to pay.

“Keep your money, Russell,” Driscoll said. And moved off to the phone to call Janice.