Authors: Bill Loehfelm
Fresh Kills (12 page)
Tough Guy backed away, his arms loose at his sides, easing back into the group. Together, they drifted toward the cab, watching me. At least two were afraid. The cabbie leaned on his horn.
“You a lucky motherfucker,” Tough Guy finally said from the curb.
He lifted his T-shirt, just enough for me to see the handle of the gun tucked in his shorts. My blood went hot, rushed to my heart. Too late. I was pissed, furious he hadn’t done that thirty seconds ago.
They all stared at me through the back window as the cab drove away, two of them flipping me the bird. I watched the cab until it disappeared into the Richmond Avenue traffic.
Waiting for the adrenaline to recede, I watched the gulls circle the Dump across the street. I couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow that little prick had managed to steal something from me. My hands shook. Sweat trickled down my rib cage.
I needed to figure out how much longer I had before I met Julia, but I couldn’t get my head straight. It’d upset her to see me all jacked up. If I didn’t take some time, some air, to calm down, she’d read it right off my face. I decided to circle the Mall from the outside, afraid that if I went inside, I’d hit the first person who bumped into me.
The sun baked the back of my jacket, but I didn’t want to take it off. I walked fast, like I knew where I was going. A security truck slowed as it rolled up behind me. It followed me for a while, making sure I wasn’t casing the cars in the lot. I stopped, turning my head far enough for me to see him but not far enough for him to see my face. I told myself that if he wanted to talk, I’d do my civic duty and tell him about the kid with the gun. Unless he gave me attitude, in which case I might have to drag him from the truck by his plastic badge. The truck idled for a moment then turned away and cruised deeper into the lot. Apparently, I still wasn’t worth the hassle for a few bucks an hour.
Walking on, I thought about the kid with the gun. Seeing it hadn’t frightened me. If he’d meant to use it, he would’ve made a move for it right away. He’d only flashed it to impress his friends, to save face. It was probably his big brother’s gun. He’d stash it back under the bed when he got home, before his brother realized it was gone and whipped his ass for taking it. That kid, he was armed, but he was really no different than I was at fifteen. He’d rather brag about the fight that almost was than shed his blood over the real thing.
A real predator didn’t stare you in the face, didn’t wait for someone else to make the first move. He materialized out of thin air, moved with quickness and efficiency. Decisiveness. Authority. He didn’t weigh consequences. A real killer didn’t give you a chance to finish your sentence or light your cigar, never mind swing first, or fight back, or run.
A real killer stepped out of a car, shot you dead, and disappeared before anybody saw his face. He left a corpse at the feet of half a dozen dipshit witnesses who couldn’t do any better than “big and white.” Left an old man’s blood and brains splattered on shop windows. Left the cops drawing on the sidewalk. Left a big, empty house where someone’s daughter, where my sister, wept over pictures of people and places she didn’t remember, asking her brother questions he couldn’t answer. A killer left my sister, my baby sister, buying fucking funeral dresses at the fucking Mall. And all I could do about it was pace the parking lot looking for a fight, which, I decided, wasn’t nearly enough.
I walked up to another entrance. I pulled the door open hard, but I let it go when the cold air hit me. The walk had done me no good. I watched my reflection appear in the glass as the door closed. The sunlight stung when I pulled my sunglasses off. I closed my eyes, pinched the bridge of my nose. My eyes burned. The pain got worse when I rubbed them. I couldn’t breathe, my throat dry, my lungs constricted.
I thought of my sister in a store, standing at the register, a black dress on a plastic hanger tossed on the counter. I could see her digging through her purse for her credit card, telling the salesperson why she’d spent so long in the dressing room, why her eyes were red and puffy. Telling a complete stranger her father was dead. Not even noticing, or caring, that the salesperson wasn’t even looking at her. I could feel Julia’s chest heaving as the words rushed out of her, clearing space for the cool air that’d make her lighter for a while. Light enough at least to get to the next store and the next dress.
I’d told Molly I was happy someone had shot my father. I’d said something stupid like that. I thought of her sitting silent on the edge of my bed, staring at the wall. I tried to see myself going to her, saying something to her, anything, that I didn’t punctuate with a chuckle and a smirk. But all I could see was her getting up as I sat down. I tried to picture myself with a black suit tossed on a counter in front of me. Tried to imagine handing over the cash, telling someone the suit was for my father’s funeral. Just saying it, waiting for the air to rush into my chest. But I couldn’t see it, couldn’t feel it. The only place I could see myself was in a dark alley, beating some big, white guy’s head against the pavement.
I forced a deep breath, trying to shake the alleyway from my head. I thought about another smoke, but there wasn’t much point. I knew I couldn’t relax no matter how long I stalked the parking lot or how many cigarettes I smoked. I chewed the inside of my cheek, biting down until it hurt, and tried to clear my head but I kept seeing my sister, this time as a tiny, happy, innocent girl in a bright yellow dress, riding a carousel pony with her father. What the fuck was I doing out here, holding my dick in a parking lot?
I figured I still had close to an hour. I could get there and back and still meet Julia for lunch without her ever knowing the difference.
I PARKED THE CAR across the street from the deli and ducked into Joyce’s for a quick double Jameson. The bartender, thankfully not Joyce, shook his head as I slammed the shot back, slammed my money down, and walked back out the door. The whiskey went down hard. I lit a cigarette and laid hot smoke over the whiskey-burn in my throat. My head cleared and my nerves stilled. I slipped my shades over my eyes and jogged across the street through a break in the traffic.
I sat in the car for a while, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, trying to work out how to play it inside the deli. As a teenager, I’d been in that deli almost every day. Buying a paper and coffee before school, maybe cigarettes, playing video games after. Buying beer with a pathetic fake ID on weekend nights. Just another one of the neighborhood kids. But that was years ago; nobody in there would know me now. If I was going to do any better than Waters and Purvis, I would have to come strong. Strong enough that whoever I turned up would tell me what they knew.
I was out of the car and waiting to cross the street when a tall, skinny kid, maybe eighteen or nineteen, greasy black hair down to his shoulders, backed out of the deli’s front door. He held a bucket heavy with water in one hand and clutched a long-handled brush in the other. Tucked under one arm was a bottle of bleach. I knew he was out there to finish the job he’d begun the day before. I started across the street but the blare of a car horn backed me up against my car. A sharp pain in my chest shortened my breath as my heart punched my rib cage. That was new.
Pinned against my car, waiting for a break in the traffic, I watched the kid set everything down and rummage through his apron pockets. He pulled out a cell phone and a pack of cigarettes. He lit up and started a call, leaning against the storefront, constantly glancing at the door while he talked, hitting the cigarette often, in quick, nervous puffs. After a few minutes, he closed the phone and dropped it back in his apron. Grinning, he tossed his smoke daintily into the middle of the sidewalk in front of him. The light on the corner turned red and the traffic slowed in front of me. The kid stepped forward and crushed out his cigarette in my father’s blood.
I darted through the cars, trying to remember what I’d come there to do. The kid bent to pick up the bottle of bleach. I was on him before he got the cap off, my toes almost meeting his, my heels in my father’s blood. He dropped the bottle. It hit the concrete with a dull thump, rolled to the corner, off the curb, and settled in the gutter.
I pushed past him, bumping him with my shoulder, and walked to the corner, turning once to make sure he didn’t bolt for the door. With him watching, I picked up the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and poured the bleach into the gutter, the scent of it stinging my nose as it rose from the street. The sting turned up the humming behind my eyes.
“Yo,” he finally said, “what the fuck?”
I spiked the bottle in the street and walked back over to him. His eyes danced as they searched my face, looking for a reason for my behavior. I felt disinclined to give him one. I stood as close as I could to him without us touching.
“Pick that up,” I said, pointing at the cigarette butt but staring at him.
“What are you? Some kind of fucking clean freak?” He waved a hand over the dozens of crushed-out butts on the sidewalk and in the street. He backed up a step. “What’s the difference? You got a problem with it, you pick it up. Get the rest of ’em while you’re at it. Save me some work.” He turned to pick up his brush. “Fucking weirdo.”
I shoved him into the storefront window. The glass boomed and shook on impact. He yelled and his hands flew up in front of his face. I smacked them out of the way and grabbed fistfuls of his shirt.
“What’s that stain on the sidewalk, shithead?” I asked, breathing in his face. “You work yesterday? What is it? Tell me what it is.”
He wouldn’t look at me, but I saw the recognition, the pieces start to come together in his face. “Blood.”
A young girl, a plumper, prettier version of the guy I was about to throttle, stuck her head out the door. “Vito, what’s goin’ on out here?” She gave me a hard stare. I let Vito go. “Everything all right?” the girl asked. “I need to call somebody?”
Vito nodded. “Yeah, yeah, Angie. I mean no, no, I’m fine, don’t call nobody.”
“What’d you do now, Vito?” Angie asked.
“Nothin’,” he said. “Go the fuck back inside, Angie. Now.”
She did, swearing in Italian, at me or at Vito or at both of us, under her breath.
“That your sister?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “Fucking
puttana
busybody.”
puttana
busybody.”
I smacked his face. “Don’t ever talk to or about your sister like that ever again.” Vito stared at me, utterly confused. I raised my hand, as if to hit him again. “Capeesh?”
“Yeah, whatever. Who the fuck are you?”
“Whose blood is that?” I asked. I took out my cigarettes, shook out one for each of us. I felt completely relaxed.
“Some guy,” he said. “Some guy got shot out here yesterday.”
“What was his name?”
“I don’t know, man,” he whined. “I wasn’t even here yesterday. My old man just told me to clean it up today, after the rush. He didn’t tell me nothin’ else about it. Just that a guy got shot.”
“You ask about it?”
The kid shrugged, lighting the smoke I’d given him. “No. I mean, I didn’t think to—”
I smacked the cigarette out of his mouth.
“Jesus. Fuck.” His hand came away from his mouth with a little blood on his fingertips. “Whadda you fucking want?! Jesus.” People walked past us without hesitation. No one looked over from their cars, just a few feet away.
“So somebody gets shot in front of your store,” I said, sliding my arm across Vito’s shoulders, “and you don’t ask any questions? Somebody
dies
out here, and you’re crushing out your cigarettes in his blood the next fucking day like it’s fucking nothin’? And you never even ask his name?”
dies
out here, and you’re crushing out your cigarettes in his blood the next fucking day like it’s fucking nothin’? And you never even ask his name?”
“I’m sorry, I just . . . it’s just habit, with the cigarette. I didn’t mean nothing—”
“Anybody here today who worked yesterday?” I asked, my lips close to his ear. “Your old man inside?”
“No. He left a while ago. He ain’t coming back today.” Vito squirmed under my arm, but he didn’t try slipping away. “I don’t know who worked yesterday. I ain’t here on weekends.”
I bent down and picked up Vito’s still-burning cigarette. I handed it to him. “That guy who got shot? He’s got a beautiful daughter with a broken heart, prick that he was. Maybe you should show some respect. Maybe you should find out who worked yesterday. Maybe you should ask your old man some questions.” I backed away a few steps. “I’m comin’ back to talk to you again.”
“Why don’t you just talk to the cops?” Vito asked. “Whatta you buggin’ me for? I don’t know nothing.”
Turning, I stepped between two parked cars. As I waited for a break in the traffic, I felt Vito walk up behind me. I didn’t turn around. “Who are you?” he asked. “You a collector?”
“Fuck, no,” I said.
“You that girl’s boyfriend or something?”
“I’m her brother.”
Sick of waiting, I walked out into the street, cars in both directions slamming on their brakes.
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