Vengeance is Mine (8 page)

Chapter Eleven

They were back on the road after sleeping the entire day in an Oklahoma City motor court. Anthony rolled down the windows so the moist, night air could blow through. He drove with his elbow in the wind and his right wrist over the steering wheel, a smoking cigarette almost forgotten in his fingers.

“So I worked my way up as a wise guy in the Family. I was raised by a man who'd worked for Nicolas Marsala. He built an empire on a sense of honor, despite the nature of our business.” They'd been talking nonstop, learning about each other and wanting more. “From the time I was eighteen, and a runner for Marsala, I knew to stay away from harming families, especially kids. Wives are another thing, they can be tough and dangerous, but I never harmed a child.”

For several long minutes, the only sound was the wind, and the whoosh of an occasional car passing in the opposite direction. When Samantha didn't answer, Anthony felt compelled to fill the silence. “I kill people.”

Finally, Samantha reached across the seat to pluck away the cigarette. She drew deep and the cherry glowed red. “I
figured
you were one of Daddy's wise guys. I knew it when they recognized you back in the motel.”

“Probably when I shot them, too.”

“That too.” Sam surprised herself that she could discuss it so calmly. She knew what her dad's world was like, but had never seen the dark side. Instead of feeling horrified, or thrilled, she was surprised to find nothing but ambivalence.

“I liked it. That's the problem. I was good at my job.”

She thought back to Anthony's quick, violent response to the gangsters. “You know what, pal? You still are.” Resting against the passenger door, Samantha thought she should have been scared, but instead, the conversation cleared the last bit of fog between them. “You liked being a made man?”

Anthony ran nicotine-stained fingers through his oiled hair. “Yes. I liked killing the people Mr. Best wanted gone. There was always a reason, a good reason for it.”

His comments were so nonchalant that she thought her new boyfriend might be kidding. Instead of waiting, Anthony plowed ahead. “I'm good at it, or was. The people I rubbed out were all soldiers for other gangs, or for business reasons. Some of them were murderers…”

“…like you?”

“Yeah. Like me. But I'm different.”

“How?”

He struggled to explain. “I don't know for sure. I made my bones in a war with people who were trying to muscle in on the Family. I did what Mr. Best ordered, but other than that, I never bothered anyone unless they crossed a certain…line. Then, like any soldier, I did my duty.”

For the first time in his life, Anthony had voiced how he felt. Right or wrong, he was a soldier in Mr. Best's army. He thought of the escalating war in Vietnam. “Soldiers kill, because that's their job. When men go to war, they don't ask if it's all right to kill the enemy, they do it because they're trained and the enemy will kill them first, if they get the chance. That's what happens in a war. That's how it is with Mr. Best. His enemies are my enemies.” He paused. “Or were. Not now. Not anymore. It looks like his friends are
my
enemies, now.”

Enough light glowed from the dash for Samantha to see Anthony's eyes. She expected them to be moist, but they were clear and steady, almost cold. “I know what Daddy is. He tried to keep all that away from me, but when you grow up in the life, you find out things and know what's going on. The problem is, growing up with it makes you immune.” She pushed in the cigarette lighter and waited for it to pop out. “You haven't told me what made you quit.”

Anthony took his eyes off the pool of light they were chasing down the highway. “Because he wanted me to kill kids.”

Shocked that her father had ordered the deaths of children, Samantha shook her blond head. “He wouldn't do that.”

“He would, if they were from Cuba. Another family moved into Vegas and cut in on our…his territory. They brought their kids, and settled in for a long fight. Mr. Best wanted them gone. All of them. ‘Nits turn into lice' is what he said. It's a quote from some book on the old west.”

Samantha's fingers trembled. “I gave him that book for Christmas last year. Good Christ, if it hadn't been for you, those children would have died because of me.”

“No, they would have died because I pulled the trigger.” He didn't mention the dead round. Truthfully, he had a tough time recalling those moments in the children's bedroom. Maybe it was a way of blocking that traumatic incident, or it might have been mental self-preservation. Whatever the reason, he'd pushed it far back in his mind and left it.

Sam watched his face. “But there are other men in the organization that will pull the trigger in a heartbeat.”

“No. The kids are safe. Probably on their way back to Florida to live with their relatives.”

Nits to lice.
Anthony didn't want to think about what Best said about looking over his shoulder. Neither realized they'd been listening to static on the radio until it abruptly broke off and Johnny Rivers' “Poor Side of Town” came through the tinny dashboard speaker. Overhead, stars shimmered in the clear sky, stretching to the ragged black treetops.

“Without their parents.” Sam's voice was flat.

Anthony barely turned the radio's knob, trying to dial a station in. “They're alive, that's the important part. Look, you don't have to stay with me. I wanted you to know what kind of man you're traveling with. If you want, I'll stop in the next town with a bus station and let you out.”

The Righteous Brothers overrode Johnny Rivers, but abruptly quit when they lost the signal. Static again filled the air.

“No.”

A car approached, the headlights nearly blinding them. Then it swept past and peaceful darkness wrapped their car once again. The air smelled…green…to Samantha. She enjoyed the earthy, moist breeze coming through the open window. She flicked the butt out into the slipstream. “I have a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“You think you're ever going to kill anyone again, now that you're away from Daddy and the Family?”

His answer came back like a snap. “If I have to.”

It wasn't the answer she expected. She knew right then that Anthony always spoke what was on his mind. “But you don't
need
to kill people do you? It was a job, right, not a compulsion?”

He paused, thinking. “The truth is, I like to take care of problems in a permanent way. Some people are good at solving business problems. Others work out what they're calling New Math. Others build houses, weld, or bake bread. I killed people because I was good at it, and they had it coming, according to what I believed at the time, but I'm not a complete ass.”

Tires whined on the highway, the only sound other than wind blowing through the window. Sam shook two smokes from the pack as they passed a country store, lit only by a pole light. Tony pushed the lighter in again.

The dim light from the dash revealed a grin on Anthony's face. Sam watched him for a moment. “What are you smiling about?”

“I just remembered something Cody said. He's the one who lives down in Texas. He said his uncle raised him to believe…” He paused. “How did he put it? Some people just need killing.” They were silent for a moment. “That's where we're going, to where Cody Parker lives. We're getting close, and I think it might be a good place to stay for a while. That is, if you still want to stay with me. If you don't, I understand.”

The lighter popped out. Sam put two cigarettes in her mouth and pressed the glowing end to the tips. Puffing them alive, she passed one to Anthony. “We shouldn't have any more problems, now that we're so far away from Daddy. How about you try not to shoot anyone anymore, and I'll stay with you.”

“You must really like me.”

“You're all right.”

“Good, then we're a couple, I guess.”

You don't get to choose who you fall in love with.

She shivered as the car cut through the Oklahoma darkness.

Chapter Twelve

On Saturday, Pepper and I went looking for Hootie. He'd been missing for most of the morning, but that wasn't unusual. He liked to roam by himself. Miss Becky called him after dinner, but she got worried when he didn't come home to eat.

Miss Becky's my grandmother, but everybody always called her “Miss” instead of Grandma or some of those stupid names kids hang on them, like Gaga or whatever. Even Grandpa and Uncle Cody called her Miss Becky.

Not a soul in the world ever met that old lady that didn't love her. The soft voice, her love for people, and her dedication to the Lord and her church, all defined that little old full-blood Choctaw woman.
She gently and unconsciously shaped the lives of all those near her, and could always be relied on to remain calm in a crisis.

Pearl Henson didn't have a cow, but she always had fresh milk from Miss Becky's cow. Wayne Clark was a successful businessman in Dallas, because he lived in the Parker's spare bedroom for his senior year of high school when his parents died. She was constantly sending food and clothes to those in need, and there wasn't a person in Center Springs who hadn't set a table with fruit, meat, or vegetables she canned in her kitchen.

Miss Becky tithed more than most, after she made sure the preacher at the Center Springs Assembly of God used a portion of that money for those who couldn't afford food. Each year under her close supervision, another slice of that tithe went to the kids at church for their Christmas stocking full of fruit, nuts, candy, and a small toy.

I was always fascinated by her rough, work-hardened hands that felt velvet soft when she touched us. Those hands planted and harvested food in the garden that went on our table and to others in need. They cradled babies, cooked, sewed, cleaned, and clasped together in prayer.

There was no other person like her in our community.

Me and Pepper stopped by Uncle Cody's house, but Norma Faye said she hadn't seen him. We ate a fried peach pie apiece, and then pedaled up to the store, thinking he might have followed Grandpa up there.

We passed Oak Peterson's general store, but I never liked to go in there. It was too dark, and Oak's wandering left eye always scared me. The long hairs growing from the top of his nose weren't right, neither.

We coasted to Uncle Neal's store, past the domino hall where someone rattled the rocks on the other side of the open door. The usual members of the Spit and Whittle Club were on the porch, talking about a murder. We leaned our bikes against the side of the building and listened for a minute.

“I 'magine Tommy Lee got killed because he's been into just about everything that ain't legal.”

“I heard he was selling drugs.”

“It was whiskey.”

“He got to stealing car batteries and such…”

“He didn't do no such of a thing…”

Pepper leaned in close. “These old windbags are talking to hear their heads rattle. They don't know any more than we do. Let's go in and get a Dr Pepper.”

For once we agreed, but I didn't even have a nickel in my pocket. “I ain't got no money.”

“We'll put it on Grandpa's credit. I watched how he paid it up last time. Neal gave him a number, and he handed him the cash. He won't notice two more cold drinks.”

“That don't sound right. It's kinda like stealin'.”

“It ain't stealing,
knothead
. Stealing is if we snitch a couple of drinks out of the cooler and don't pay for them. If Grandpa was here, he'd say all right and give us the money, so what's the difference? It's like when we came up here the other day and bought that sugar.”

She was right, and at the same time wrong, but I couldn't come up with a good argument for that kind of logic. None of the men at the top of the wooden steps paid us much attention, because kids were like dogs and always underfoot, at least until she held up two fingers and said, “Peace.”

“Howdy, Uncle Top!” Neal Box always called me that for some reason.

I waved and went straight toward the red chest-cooler beside the door on our left. I heard one of the men behind me. “What's she mean, victory?” It was several years later that I learned the peace sign was also the victory sign during World War II.

Pepper raised the lid on the cooler. “We're getting a couple of drinks. Grandpa will pay for it later.” Inside, the metal tracks full of chilled bottles were mixed together, so it took a second to find the bottle cap we wanted.

“That'll be fine.” Neal flipped the pages of a notepad and noted the purchases with a stubby yellow pencil.

We pulled them on the opener mounted to the front of the cooler and left. I felt as guilty as if I'd hidden the sweating bottle under my shirt. Despite her attitude, Pepper must have felt the same way too, because we slipped off the porch and went around to the side to drink them. I'll have to admit, though—that Dr Pepper tasted sweeter than any I'd ever drank.

Ross Dyer was sitting on the porch with his back against the corner support post. I glanced up at him and nudged Pepper, knowing she'd take off on him. I was right.

Her forehead wrinkled. “That man has the hairiest ear holes of anyone I've ever seen. He don't take the trouble to trim them at all, and I'm not sure he spends much time washing 'em, neither.”

She didn't bother to lower her voice, and I began to worry that he'd hear her, but she probably thought he couldn't because of his ears. They looked like hairy spider holes in the ground. Maybe that's why he didn't wash them good, because he was afraid to stick a finger in there.

“That man's disgusting! He stinks, too. He needs to throw some powder under them arms. Shit, I imagine they're worse than his damn ear.”

The fun was gone, because I knew somebody on the porch would hear her. I pulled her around behind the store. “Pepper!”

I'd forgotten the colored men on the loading dock. Uncle Neal sold feed and a few men loafed around back there until he needed somebody to load a truck. They made a few cents a sack, that Uncle Neal tacked onto the price of the feed.

I wondered time and again why Grandpa didn't buy his feed there. He'd get a sack or two, maybe to help Uncle Neal, but for the most part, Grandpa traded in Hugo, across the river in Oklahoma.

Them colored fellers didn't seem to be paying us no mind, but Pepper was talking loud enough for them to hear. “Well, I bet if Miss Becky had half a chance, she'd give 'em a good scrubbing, after she barbered at 'em for a while. I don't know why Uncle Willie don't take his scissors to 'em when he finally gets around to gettin' his hair cut…”

“Pepper, now that is enough!”

I don't think she'd ever heard me use that tone of voice, and to me I sounded like Miss Becky. I saw one of the colored men hide a smile behind his hand, and knew they heard that last part, at least.

We were standing under the chinaberry tree when I noticed a lot of activity at Doc Ordway's spooky two-story house. I shivered, recalling the ghostly footsteps on the second floor. “Looks like somebody's moving in.”

Pepper perked up like a bird dog pointing quail. “Let's go see who it is.”

“We don't know them people.”

“We didn't know Mr. Bell, neither, until we dropped by for a visit.”

I didn't want to think too much about Mr. Tom, because the hurt was still there after what happened down in Mexico when him, Grandpa, and Mr. John Washington went to get Uncle Cody out of that Mexican prison. They got in a shooting war down there, but everyone except Mr. Tom made it back. Uncle Cody said it was Mr. Tom that saved them all and the last time he saw the eighty-six-year-old man he was bad-wounded but still fighting to cover their escape.

We pushed our bikes down the road, so's not to spill our cold drinks. A dark-complected man was lifting two boxes out of the trunk of his fancy car when we came up the long dirt driveway. He looked out of place in Center Springs, dressed in a suit and tie on a Saturday. Most of the men in our community either wore overalls, coveralls, khakis, or jeans. This feller looked like he was going to a funeral.

He gave us a wide grin. “Hello.”

“Ain't he purdy?” Pepper straightened and stood taller. “That's the purdiest Indian I've ever seen. He must be Sioux or something exotic.”

With his slicked-back hair and dimples, I realized he was almost as good looking as Uncle Cody, but I wasn't going to admit that to anyone. “That must be his wife.”

One of the most beautiful blond-headed women I'd ever seen came out the front door and stopped on the porch. She was even prettier than Norma Faye, and that's going some. She smiled and waved, a pleated dress dancing around her legs.

We stopped our bikes beside the man. “I'm Pepper and this here's my cousin Top, and we ain't twins like most people think. Who're you?”

The stranger wasn't a bit surprised at such a pointed question from a kid. “Name's Anth.. uh, Tony. This is my…wife, Samantha.”

“Like in ‘Bewitched'?” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I felt like a five-year-old, throwing out such a stupid question.

The blond lady came down from the porch and walked across the sandy yard. “Yes, but I'm not a witch.”

“You put a spell on
my
heart.” Tony gave her a wink.

The line would have sounded stupid coming from anyone else in Center Springs or Chisum, but from a stranger in a suit, it was perfect, despite his Yankee accent.

“What are y'all doing here?”

Samantha stepped closer and put her hand on Tony's arm. She was dressed like a movie star, and wore the tallest heels I'd ever seen on a woman. I imagined Miss Becky or Aunt Ida Belle in them, instead of the thick-soled shoes they always wore, and had to choke down a grin.

“We've rented this house until we find one to buy.”

“This old place will fall down around your ears. You need to be careful. The floor is mush under the linoleum in the kitchen.” Pepper took a long drink of her Dr Pepper as punctuation. “They say it's haunted.”

I wished she'd shut up.

Samantha didn't seem to mind. “We've heard. We had someone repair the floor, so it isn't too bad. The inside is nice, and it's furnished, too, which is good for us, because we don't even own a table yet.”

“Furnished with everything including dust, I imagine.”

“It's pretty clean now.” Samantha's eyes glittered with her smile. “We had someone come in yesterday before we got here.”

Pepper wouldn't quit. “Hope you ain't afraid of mice. How can y'all be married and not have furniture?”

I wanted to throttle her. She always asks too many questions.

Miss Samantha wasn't a bit fazed, though. “We haven't been married long.”

Pepper cocked her head. “What tribe are you?”

“Huh?” Mr. Tony tilted the city hat back on his head. We usually don't see hats like that in Center Springs. Most men around our parts lean toward Stetsons with what they call a sheriff's crease. His looked like those the gangsters wore on “The Untouchables.”

I tried to step in for my aggravating cousin. “We're part Choctaw, about a third I guess. Miss Becky is full-blood Indian, but Grandpa's barely any Comanche at all. That's why they get along so good. If he was more Comanche, I imagine they'd be fighting all the time.”

Miss Samantha laughed, her teeth white behind bright red lipstick. “He's not Indian.”

“I'm half Italian.” Mr. Tony grinned.

“There's lots of Indians across the river in Oklahoma.”

The couple exchanged a smile and Mr. Tony shrugged his shoulders at Pepper's statement. “Do either of you know someone named Cody Parker?”

The name surprised me. “Sure do. That's our uncle.”

“Isn't that something? Well, he's the reason we came to Center Springs. I met him and his wife when they were in Las Vegas, and their enthusiasm about this place made it sound like Heaven, so we decided to come see for ourselves. Would you tell him we're here when you see him again?”

“Sure will.” Pepper can't answer a simple question without wandering around. “He'll come by the house pretty soon for dinner.”

“Good. Tell him tonight that Tony Agrioli from Las Vegas is in town and says hello.”

“I said he'd come for dinner.” Pepper jerked her head back and forth from me and Mr. Tony. Her hair was held back in a ponytail with a rubber band, and it occurred to me that she was twitching that tail so he'd pay attention to her.

“Okay. If it isn't tonight, then it'll be tomorrow night maybe?”

“Where you from? We don't eat dinner at
night
. We eat it at noon.”

Mr. Tony frowned. “I'm not sure I understand. Your dinner is during lunch?”

I rubbed my Boy's Regular haircut, and realized I probably look like Grandpa when he's frustrated. “We have lunch at school, but at home, we eat dinner at noon. We have supper at five or six at night.”

Mr. Tony and his wife exchanged looks again, and they busted out laughing. “We're in ‘Green Acres' for sure.” He leaned into the trunk.

I didn't much like being compared to that silly television show, but we'd been dismissed even though it didn't seem as if he wanted to get rid of us. Mr. Tony handed his wife a little suitcase I recognized as what they call a valise and his coat was caught for a moment under her hand. It pulled to the side and I saw a Colt 1911 in a shoulder holster, like Uncle Cody's pistol. Mr. Tony tugged free without noticing, and reached back inside for another valise the same size. He slammed the trunk hard to get it to catch, but before he did, I saw something else in there.

It was the round drum attached to a Thompson machine gun. I knew what they looked like because I'd seen them in gangster movies with George Raft, who called his a Chicago Typewriter. One time Grandpa Ned took me to Judge O.C. Rains' office and showed me a Tommy Gun that once belonged to a crooked old Chisum Sheriff named Poole.