Killshot (1989) (24 page)

"Hey, Bird? What's Hot Doe Buck Lure?"

Armand inspected the entire house again in daylight. Upstairs in the bedroom he pulled the phone cord out of the wall, in case the ironworker's wife sneaked up here. She might do it, but could never jump out of one of these windows without hurting herself. She would have to go through the two panes of glass, the window and the storm sash, once he locked them, using all the strength in his fingers to twist each catch in place. There were storm windows downstairs too. The living room was on the wrong side of the house to watch from, but the dining room was good. Armand liked the dining room, the big oak table, the window in front and the row of windows along the side, where the ironworker would drive in. There was still plenty of time. It was only eleven-thirty. He'd have one drink, a swallow from the bottle, that's all.

He was getting used to the sounds around this place. It had been quiet all night except for Richie, but now the wind was gusting, rattling the windows, and those big cargo planes from the Selfridge Air National Guard base were flying over low, with a roaring noise like they were coming into the house. It would shut Richie up for a few moments. Armand felt himself coming to the end of Richie, the irritation of this guy, this punk, reaching its peak, and by the end of this day that would be enough of him. Richie hadn't mentioned Donna yet but he would, Armand was pretty sure.

Earlier, they had eaten in the kitchen, the waffles you put in a toaster. The ironworker's wife had syrup. She made coffee and stood by the window while they sat at the counter, Richie talking, trying to impress her, the punk talking with his mouth full. He asked her if she had ever met a bank robber before. She said no. He asked her if she liked Missouri. She shrugged her shoulders. He said did she know Jesse James was from there? He said he was going to Missouri and rob one of the banks Jesse James robbed, that would be cool. He showed her all the flat frozen-food boxes in the icebox, not in the freezer, thawing on a shelf, so you could cook them quicker, and told her he ate chicken every day. You know why? She said no. He said because Wade Boggs ate chicken every day of his life. He said, Bird, you know who Wade Boggs is? Armand had heard the name, they spoke of Wade Boggs in the Silver Dollar in Toronto, cursing him; but that was all he knew, the name, so he didn't answer. Richie asked the ironworker's wife, calling her Carmen, if she knew and she nodded. Maybe she did, maybe she didn't. Richie said, Tell the Bird who he is. Carmen said, He plays third base for the Boston Red Sox. Richie said, And belts the shit right out of a baseball. He told Carmen he had wanted to be a major-league ballplayer, but his deprived youth as an orphan had fucked up his chances, so he became a bank robber instead. Chewing gum by this time, the punk would blow a bubble and pop it, showing off.

Next thing, Richie told Carmen to take her clothes off, he had an idea. She said no, shaking her head at him, determined not to do it. He said, Okay, not all your clothes. You got on undies, don't you? You can leave on your brassiere if you wear one and your panties. You wear a brassiere? She turned away as he reached for her and Armand watched Richie rub his hand over her back, feeling it, and then his whole face smiled and he said, Hey, she don't wear one, Bird. He told her, Okay, strip down to your panties if you got any on and you'll be our little topless bunny, serve us drinks and dinner. How's that sound, Bird? Armand didn't say anything. The way this punk kept talking had him at the edge; still, he wouldn't mind seeing the ironworker's wife without her clothes on. She held her arms tight to her body when Richie tried to pull the sweater off. When she kneed Richie in the crotch, hard, and he doubled over with the pain, Armand thought Richie might pull his gun. He could hit her if he wanted, but shoot her, no. Her mother might phone worried sick, wondering where she was. Or the ironworker might call from the road and think something happened if she didn't answer and then maybe he'd call the police too. But Richie didn't pull his gun. He tried to slap her with one hand, holding his balls with the other, and she got away from him and went to the other side of the counter and picked up a knife. Richie thought that was funny. What he did, he opened the bottle of Hot Doe Buck Lure and threw deer piss on her clothes, doused her with it good and the smell was so bad it could make you sick. Richie made her go into the bathroom at the end of the hall, telling her to take off those clothes and wash herself. He closed the door and they stood in the foyer by the stairs waiting. The door opened. She came out wearing something that looked like an undershirt and white panties very low on her hips. Jesus Christ. Richie said, Hey, I want you topless. But looked at her some more and said it was a cute outfit, he liked it. Armand didn't say it but agreed with Richie, the ironworker's wife looked pretty nice. She stood up straight, not folding her arms or trying to cover herself, and looked right back at them. Though didn't seem too happy about it, no.

They were in the dining room now, at the table Carmen and Wayne had bought at a farm auction.

Richie sat at the end toward the doorway to the kitchen. He had Wayne's jacket off, hooked to the back of his chair. The nickel-plated revolver she remembered lay on the table next to his low-cal gourmet chicken.

Carmen sat with the windows behind her, hands folded on the table edge in front of her; she felt less exposed here. The tank top smelled and she'd breathe through her mouth whenever she got a strong whiff of doe urine and would remember the night Wayne brought it home. She wasn't shaking the way she did at first, chills running through her. Now she could sit without holding herself rigid, not exactly relaxed, but at least aware. The hardest part was trying not to think of Wayne coming home or Wayne in tender moments or Matthew; she didn't dare think of Matthew, especially as a little boy. If she did an urge to cry would come over her and she was afraid if she started she wouldn't be able to stop.

What she did to hang on and not panic or come apart was think of Wayne in a different way, Wayne here, close to her, so that she wasn't alone. Wayne in her mind but real, because she knew him so well. She asks him if he's scared and he says, for Christ sake of course he's scared, you'd have to have brain damage not to be scared of these assholes. Don't let their chitchat, that casual bullshit, fool you, these guys are fucking maniacs. Stay low, don't make a lot of noise, don't piss them off, and if they give you any more than thirty seconds' leeway take it, run like hell for a door. Don't try a window, you'll never get the goddamn storm open. She says, Thanks a lot. Wayne shrugs. What else can I tell you? You run if you see the chance. You get your hands on a gun, use it. None of this put-your-hands-up-while-I-call-the-cops, use it. She asked him where he'd put the Remington. He wouldn't tell her. She clenched her jaw. Wayne, goddamn it . . . He still wouldn't tell her.

Armand, wearing his suit coat and the tie with tiny fish on it, sat across from her eating Swedish meatballs and noodles. The opening to the foyer and the stairway was directly behind him. Richie, to Armand's left at the end of the table, would stare at her tank top chewing his food, sucking his teeth. He looked at her the way Ferris did; but Ferris was an actor, Richie was real. Ferris was nothing. Armand would glance at her as he looked up from his food to gaze at the row of windows behind her, rattling in the wind. She had been right when she told Wayne, a long, long time ago, Richie was scarier than Armand.

They'd had drinks now, Richie a Southern Comfort and 7-Up, one, Armand four whiskeys with a splash of water, and were talking to each other more than they did earlier.

Carmen listened to them, waiting for the phone to ring, Mom calling, Where are you? It's almost one o'clock. They began talking about the shotgun, Wayne's Remington, as if she wasn't sitting at the table with them. It gave her a strange feeling, till she began to concentrate on the gun that was somewhere in the house.

Richie saying, "He might have it, but he's not gonna walk in here with it."

Armand saying, "Oh, you know that?"

Richie saying, "Why would he? He thinks his little wife's in here fixing supper. Comes runing in, 'Hi, honey, I'm home.' "

Armand saying, "How do you know he won't have the gun?"

Carmen thinking, Because he doesn't. Because it's here.

Armand saying, "What did she say to him on the telephone? Something funny is going on here and he told her to call the cops."

Richie saying, "To tell them she's home, that's all." Looking at her then and saying, "Isn't that right?" Carmen nodded and he said, "I guess you figured out we was listening in upstairs."

Carmen thinking that's where it would have to be. But if it was there, why didn't they see it? If Wayne took it upstairs he wouldn't have hidden it.

She looked at the glasses and plates and food containers on the table--extra ones in the middle Armand would pick from, macaroni and cheese, lasagna, sweet potatoes with sliced apple and brown sugar--looked at the stains on the plastic tablecloth she had put on to protect the wood finish. It reminded her of looking in the refrigerator yesterday at 950 Hillglade, worrying about food spoiling when she was dying to get out of there. Instinctively the good little housewife. Now sitting in her underwear with two guys who were going to shoot her husband when he walked in the door and then shoot her or shoot them both at the same time. . . . She had never thought about dying or even getting old or what she had heard on television called the terrifying middle-age crisis. . . . They might use the shotguns leaning against the table next to where they sat. They might take them down to the cellar. She thought, Well, if we're together. And thought, Bullshit.

Mad. The way she was on the porch the time Armand came and she fired twice. Mad because he was so goddamn sure of himself. Fired when he was close and fired again, when he was out by the chickenhouse. After that she went inside.

Now think.

She had laid the gun on the counter.

Wayne came home from the store where the girl had been shot and killed. Probably by the nickel-plated gun lying on the table to the right of Richie's plate, the stubby barrel pointing at Armand. The police arrived. No, they got here before Wayne, because he was questioned at the store for about an hour, came home and a different bunch of cops started on him and they didn't like his attitude. They never liked it. Wayne saying if they weren't going to handle it, he would. Wayne furious, in his way, showing contempt, cold anger. Wayne reloading the shotgun in front of them. Carmen remembered it now, yes, and the police didn't like it at all, Wayne's Charles Bronson gesture. And the next night--or was it the night after that?--the front windows were shot out as they sat in the living room and threw themselves on the floor and the duck prints were blown off the wall, yes, and that night Wayne took the shotgun upstairs. He said, They could walk right in the goddamn house if they want. He said, We'll clean that up in the morning. He took the shotgun upstairs with them saying, We'll hear this step squeak if they try it. She remembered she didn't say anything. He stood the gun against his night table but didn't like it there. He said, I get up to go to the bathroom. . . . He knelt down--she could see him doing it--and put the gun under the bed.

That's where it was.

These two would have been standing by the bed or sitting on it listening as she talked to Wayne and then her mother, seven-thirty this morning. They didn't notice it because the phone was on the night table on her side of the bed and the gun was under Wayne's side. She wondered if he might have brought it downstairs later. But she didn't remember seeing it downstairs before they left and if he did they would have found it.

No, the shotgun was still under the bed, loaded.

Richie said, "What's wrong with our little bunny?"

Armand didn't say anything.

Richie said, "Hey, what's wrong with you? You scared or what?"

Carmen raised her eyes from the table. "Of course, I'm scared."

Richie acted surprised. "There's no reason to be. Old Wayne gets home, all we're gonna do is have a talk with him. Isn't that right, Bird?"

Armand, hunched over his plate, looked up at her with dull eyes, indifferent. He said, "That's right."

Carmen didn't speak. There was nothing to say that would mean anything. Richie seemed dumb enough to think she might believe him and Armand was telling her he didn't care if she believed it or not or care what Richie said. Richie could do whatever he wanted. Armand would watch. What she had to do, soon, was think of a way to get around the table past them, run upstairs to the bedroom, lock the door and pray to God the shotgun was under the bed and she'd have time to pick it up before they came busting in.

* * *

When the phone rang Richie said, "That must be old Mom, huh? Let's tell her you can't make it today, you're sick." He took Carmen by the arm into the kitchen, giving her instructions on the way. If it was Wayne, tell him to hurry. If it was anybody else, tell them she couldn't talk now, she had to get to her mom's. She reached for the phone and he said, "Wait now," and felt her jump as he slipped cold metal into the rear end of her panties, nosing the barrel of the nickelplate down to rest against her tailbone. He said, "Don't be dumb now and get your bummie shot off. I want it in one piece for after. Okay, make it quick."

Richie moved in close to listen and smell her hair. Heard the mom say, "Well, where are you?" Tough old broad. Carmen told her she was sorry but she couldn't make it. Richie poked her with the nickelplate. She said, "I'm sick." Her mom asked what was wrong. Carmen said she didn't know, she just didn't feel good. The mom said it must've been something she ate on the road and that's why she didn't travel, the food being terrible out there. The mom said, "Well, you don't sound too bad." The mom wanted her to come anyway on account of she was in awful pain and had called the doctor three times and he still hadn't called back, he let her sit by the phone for hours while he was busy making money. Richie agreed with her. Doctors he had known in the joint all had a superior attitude. He got a surprise then when Carmen said all of a sudden, "Can't you stop thinking of yourself for one minute and listen?" Uh-oh. "I'm sick. Do you understand that? You've had your turn, now it's mine." Her mom didn't like that one bit. She said, "Well, thank you very much--after all I've done for you," and hung up.