Twice in a Lifetime (6 page)

Amos had tried to quit countless times, usually in the sickened aftermath of a bad dose, full of heartfelt promises that this time would be different, that his will was strong enough. But then the shakes would come, the sweating that left his shirt plastered to his skin, and the paranoid feeling that he was being watched. He would get the chills so bad that even in the middle of summer, covered in a wool blanket, he couldn’t stop shivering. In the end, he’d always been too weak. He had come to accept that morphine had its claws sunk in too deep for him to ever get away. No matter where he went, no matter what he did, the need to get high was coming, calling to him…

Unfortunately, morphine wasn’t cheap, nor was it easy to find. In order to get it, Amos had resorted to lying, stealing, and on one regrettable night in Burlington, violence. The desire made him a lesser man; as a matter of fact, it was the reason they were driving to Sunset. All through the night, Amos kept expecting to see headlights come roaring up behind them, for his luck to finally run out. That was because the last time he’d been in St. Louis, he’d hooked up with Ronald Woods, a small-time drug dealer who went by the nickname Sweet. Amos had used Sweet a few times before, and while the thug was crude and violent, a fledgling businessman who wanted to be much bigger, his product was good and cheap and came without questions. But then, one night a month back, Amos had seized an unexpected opportunity and stolen from Sweet…

He’d been on the run ever since.

Amos glanced at Drake through one half-closed eye; his friend spun the radio dial, searching for something worth listening to through a fog of static. The driver was a good man, his closest friend, but he knew nothing of his mechanic’s addiction. Amos took enormous pains to hide it, and had so far succeeded in keeping it a secret. Unfortunately for Drake, ignorance didn’t mean he wasn’t also in danger; Sweet Woods would see guilt by association.

Guilt gnawed at Amos. Beneath his gruff exterior, despite the way they traded barbs, he felt a real affection for Drake. They were friends and business partners, but their bond ran deeper than that; though Amos wasn’t
that
much older than his driver, he reckoned that Drake was the son he’d never had. He felt humiliated that he had put them in danger but helpless to do anything about it.

What choice did he have? He couldn’t tell the truth. Amos needed Drake if he wanted to make money, funds that he had to have in order to keep feeding his habit. So far, the only solution he’d come up with was to stay far from St. Louis, to not let Sweet get too close, and to never remain in any one place for long; doing so would protect him and Drake both. Sunset was in the middle of nowhere, completely forgettable. They could stay for an afternoon, run a race, win some money, and then move on down the road, staying ahead of trouble. He had enough morphine to last him for a while, at least until he could find another dealer. It would all work out. It had to.

When he finally surrendered to the drug’s embrace, Amos felt as safe as a newborn baby in its mother’s arms.

R
ONALD
“S
WEET
” W
OODS
popped a butterscotch candy in his mouth, rolling it around on his tongue. He stood in the open doorway of an abandoned barn; the whole frame sagged, looking like it might fall over in a strong wind. High above, the sky was awash with stars, far more than he ever saw in the city. Absently, he hummed a tune he couldn’t quite remember, the sound mixing with the whimpers and cries behind him, a melody occasionally interrupted by the raw, thudding sound of heavy fists.

Before him, a town settled down for the night. Lights still shone in houses, but dinners had long since been eaten, radio shows listened to, and children tucked into bed. The sun had set hours before; a chill filled the air. Sweet couldn’t remember the name of this godforsaken place, but for most of the town’s residents, the day was done.

Sweet’s was just beginning.

Turning around, he saw a man tied to a chair; rope crisscrossed his chest, securing his arms and legs. Drool hung from his busted lip, a mixture of saliva and blood; it dangled for a moment, swinging like a pendulum, before breaking loose to drop onto his leg. Sweat plastered his greasy hair to his forehead. He was missing some teeth, but Sweet wondered if they hadn’t been gone long before he’d gotten his hands on the man.

“Let me see him,” Sweet said.

Malcolm Child stood beside the bound man, his fists bloodied from carrying out his boss’s orders. He was a huge presence, tall, shoulders as wide as most doorways, the muscles of his broad chest straining against his shirt. An ugly scar zigzagged down his cheek, the tissue almost white, the memento of a bar brawl years earlier. As quiet as he was intimidating, Malcolm was a constant presence at Sweet’s side, his enforcer, entrusted with carrying out the most violent of orders. Now, he did as Sweet commanded and grabbed a fistful of the man’s hair, yanking his head up.

“What’s his name?” Sweet asked, mostly out of curiosity.

Malcolm shook his head.

Sweet stepped closer. “Tell me,” he demanded.

Slowly, the man looked up; one eye was watery, barely focused, while the other was already swollen shut from being struck. His jaw hung open, slack; his tongue slid out over cracked lips, causing more bloody spit to fall. When he still failed to answer, Malcolm gave him a violent shake.

“Ga— Garrett,” he managed.

“All right then, Garrett. Start again from the beginning.”

The battered man took a deep, wheezing breath, wincing from the pain it caused, and looked imploringly at the stranger before him.

Sweet Woods was a small man, short in stature and thin as a rail; standing beside Malcolm, he barely came up to the brute’s armpit. Even though he was in his midthirties, his round face was pockmarked with acne scars, a remnant of the boy he had once been; the flatness of his dishwater-gray eyes, the way he slicked back his dark hair, and the sneer that curled the corner of his mouth spoke loudly of the man he had become. Recently, he’d begun to wear fancier clothes, suit coats and neckties, his shoes shined so immaculately that he could see his reflection in them. Sweet had chosen the new wardrobe because he wanted to look more like someone with money, someone who commanded respect; it didn’t matter that the collar scratched his skin or that the shoes gave him blisters. He wanted to project the image of a man who shouldn’t be fucked with.

The gun tucked into his waistband didn’t hurt, either.

“They…they come into the…the Tipsy Dog…the tavern…the day before…yesterday…” It was the same place where Sweet had surprised Garrett, tossing him into the back of his car and bringing him to the secluded barn.

“Who were they?” Sweet pressed.

“There was just the…two of ’em…one was older than the other…he was the mechanic…and the other one…he done the drivin’…”

“What were their names?”

“I…I don’t recall…them ever sayin’…”

Sweet was convinced that they were talking about Amos Barstow, the bastard he had been tracking for more than a week through the no-name towns of northern Missouri. The mechanic was one of hundreds of people who came to Sweet to buy drugs and put down a bet on a horse race. Barstow had been indistinguishable from the others, just another face holding a wad of money.

Until the son of a bitch stole from him.

He still wasn’t sure how it’d happened. Like a half-dozen times before, Sweet had met with Barstow to sell him morphine. They had almost finished when a flunky who ran numbers for Sweet barged in complaining about some missing receipts. In the time it had taken to fix the problem—a threat of grave bodily harm had finally done the trick—Barstow had made off with three bottles of morphine and a bag holding a couple hundred dollars cash. On top of that, the mechanic seemed to have vanished into thin air. Even after Sweet put the word out, offering a reward to whoever brought him Barstow’s whereabouts, no trace had been found.

It was bad enough that Sweet was out his stuff, but the real problem was that it wasn’t his to begin with. Sweet had been given the drugs and cash by Curtis Webber, a bigger fish in the criminal pond that was St. Louis. Sweet was to sell and otherwise distribute it, skimming a small amount off the top to keep for himself. After Barstow’s theft, Sweet had had to return to his superior with his tail tucked between his legs and come clean about what had happened. He’d expected there to be severe and immediate consequences. Instead, Curtis had calmly explained that if Sweet didn’t get back what had been stolen, if he didn’t cut Barstow’s throat from ear to ear, not only would he lose any chance to advance in the underworld that ruled the city, but he would soon find himself dead, floating in the river, food for the fishes.

Sweet understood immediately. This wasn’t a job for his men. He had to do it himself. After all, more than his product had been taken; Barstow had also robbed him of his pride.

“What kind of car did they drive?” he prodded.

“It…it was a black…Plymouth…” the bound man answered. “It didn’t…look like much…but the way that fella drove…it was fast as all get out…”

That fella
was Drake McCoy, Sweet was sure of it. He had never met the driver, but word was he was aces behind the wheel and had been working with Barstow for years. Their play was simple: between seasons on the racing circuit, they drove around the countryside winning money from fools like Garrett. While Sweet couldn’t have said for certain whether McCoy was in on Barstow’s theft, in the end, it didn’t matter; when he finally got hold of the mechanic, if McCoy was with him, he’d suffer the same fate.

“Which way were they headed?”

“I…I don’t…don’t know…” Garrett replied, his breathing labored. “They…done left the track…and headed south, but there…ain’t no knowin’ for certain…after that…”

Sweet pulled the pistol from his waistband and squatted in front of Garrett so that the man could take a good look. He turned it around in the faint light of the lone bulb that dangled overhead, a dull shine off the dark steel. “I suggest you think hard ’bout the details,” he said. “If I was to think you were keepin’ something from me…”

“I ain’t! I swear it!”

“Can’t say I’m convinced,” Sweet said as he cocked the pistol’s hammer and raised it so that it was level with the bound man’s eyes.

Garrett shook in terror, causing blood and sweat to splatter the ground at his feet. For an instant he strained against his restraints, his body shaking like a leaf, before he fell limp, unconscious.

Sweet lowered the gun and stood.

“You should cut his throat now and be done with it.”

Sweet looked into the deeper, darker shadows at the back of the barn. Jesse Church leaned lazily against a beam, absently picking at his fingernails with a switchblade, his hat pulled down low over his face. Unlike Malcolm, Jesse was tall and lanky; though he was far less imposing physically, it didn’t mean he was no less dangerous. While his fellow henchman was adept with his fists, Jesse preferred his knife; he had slid it between the ribs of many a man, especially those who crossed his boss.

“No sense in leavin’ a tongue to wag,” Jesse said matter-of-factly.

Sweet shook his head. “We kill him and we’ll have the cops looking for us. Besides,” he said, giving Garrett’s lolling head a knock, “he’s gonna be scared of his shadow for the rest of his life after this. He won’t talk.”

Jesse shrugged, Malcolm nodded, and the matter was settled.

Leaving Garrett tied to the chair, the three men walked out to their car, a brand-new forest-green Cadillac Sixty Special. Jesse dug around in the glove compartment and came out with a map that he unfolded across the hood. Flicking a lighter to life, he held it over the paper so they could see.

“He said they went south,” Jesse commented.

“Only when they left the track,” Sweet replied. “Problem is, there ain’t no way of knowin’ for certain whether they continued that way or not.”

“So which way do we go?”

Sweet peered at the map. Roads branched out from where they stood in every direction. Following the routes that led north, south, and west took them to dozens of small towns: Dawson, Merchant Falls, Bougainville, Sunset, Clarion, the names went on and on. To randomly pick a direction might lead them on a wild goose chase, but what choice did they have?

“South first,” he answered. “We’ll do like we done here, ask around to see if anyone’s seen ’em. If we run into a dead end, we’ll backtrack and try another road. Eventually, we’ll find ’em.”

And when they did, Sweet would kill them.

Eddie Fuller pulled the stopper out of a decanter of scotch, winced as he took a sniff, and then poured two fingers’ worth into his glass. He swirled the amber liquid around and around, then took a deep swig, closing his eyes tight as it burned painfully down his throat and into his belly. He’d never been much of a drinker, nothing more than an occasional glass of wine, but he was going to learn.

After all, it was what powerful people did.

Standing at the window, Eddie looked out over Sunset, long since quieted for the night. His home was a towering Victorian, built by his father atop the ridge running west of town, which offered a magnificent view; most days, he could see the houses and businesses clustered around Sunset’s center, beyond that to the docks jutting into the river, boats chugging down the wide waterway, and finally to the thick woods on the opposite bank. It was the nicest vantage point in town.

The same could be said about the house. It was huge, with a dozen rooms, including a library, servants’ quarters, and a small greenhouse off the kitchen. Eddie had grown up under its roof, and no nook or cranny held any secrets from him. As a boy, especially after his mother’s death, he had ranged from cellar to attic, roamed up and down the grand staircase, hidden in closets, rummaged through pantries, and even ridden the dumbwaiter. The large grounds encompassed several acres and were as familiar as the back of his hand. He hadn’t ever had many friends, so with so much time alone he had developed a strong imagination. Theo Fuller had lived one life under the house’s roof, Eddie another.

But now his father was gone, and it was all his…

The few rooms that had always been off-limits to him, forbidden places like his father’s bedroom and den, were now open. So Eddie entered them. He inspected drawers full of papers, thumbed through treasured mementos, played antique phonograph records, and even tried on a few of his father’s favorite suits, posing in front of the full-length mirror. He started smoking cigars and drinking hard liquor. After years spent in the shadows waiting for his chance, he could finally step into the light.

But oddly enough, he still wasn’t happy. In fact, he was restless, uncomfortable, out of sorts, and even a little scared. Even with all that had fallen into his lap, something was still missing.

Fortunately, it didn’t take Eddie long to figure out what it was.

Clara Sinclair.

The first time he’d laid eyes on her, Eddie had been smitten; Clara wasn’t the type of woman who would’ve been considered a knockout, but to his eyes, Hollywood starlets paled in comparison. He had marched over to her teller window and started talking about anything he could think of: the weather, the new Perry Como song, even ruminations about how many people touched any one particular piece of change. It was nonsense, but looking at her, seeing just how captivating she could be, he couldn’t help himself. He felt certain that Clara must have felt the sparks rocketing back and forth between them, but amazingly, she appeared put off, even a bit embarrassed. She never uttered more than a few words.

Which only made him want her all the more.

Just like that, Eddie was infatuated. He watched her from across the bank, memorizing every strand of her hair, the way her face lit up when she smiled at a customer, the cut of every outfit in her closet. Every chance he had, he approached her, complimenting her work, her shade of lipstick, even what she’d brought for lunch, anything that might strike up a conversation between them, but he never managed to crack her frosty exterior. Eventually, it became such an obsession that he pressed her more often, more insistently, until finally his father noticed and hauled Eddie into his office.

“Stay away from her,” Theo had warned, his face creased with a disapproving scowl. “She’s got enough troubles in her life without you chasing after her like a puppy. You look like a fool.”

Chastised, Eddie retreated to his desk and did as his father asked. But being barred from speaking to Clara only drove his unrequited feelings to even greater heights. His daydreams grew in intensity; he imagined the two of them married, the talk of the town, living in the house on the hill surrounded by their children, and happier than he would ever have imagined possible.

Then his father died and he no longer had to hold back his feelings.

Over and over, Eddie replayed his talk with Clara. It hadn’t gone quite how he’d imagined. Telling her that he loved her and that he wanted to marry her had been liberating, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. But her reaction had been disappointing, to say the least. Listening to her, understanding that she was rejecting him, had lit a fuse inside Eddie, sparking an explosion that had surprised him almost as much as Clara. He hadn’t intended to use the money she still owed on her house against her; he’d only wanted to show her what she stood to gain by becoming his wife. But later, after she’d gone, he saw how useful the threat of taking her house was. All his life, squirming beneath his father’s thumb, Eddie had been powerless.