The Yards

by The Yards (epub)

  My bedroom’s a place of refuge this afternoon. Mom’s been going on about Carl Schmidt and what he’s gonna do to the “bitch who ripped him off.” Bradley Grieg’s no longer part of the story, or at least he’s been reduced to some kind of prop, future bloodshed apparently more interesting than past bloodshed.

  If my mother was the only one, I’d probably be able to hide from my fears of attack. I get enough stress from imagining cops knocking on my door. But the Schmidts, father and son, now dominate the Baxter grapevine and my mother’s conversation. Mom’s repeated the most current rumor three times. According to her, the Schmidts are offering a big-time reward to anyone who can name the woman who killed Bradley and stole his money. That means they’re hearing from every strung-out junkie in Baxter, naming their sisters, mothers, nieces, aunts, or children.

  What’s the word? Counterproductive?

  Still, I have to take the threat seriously. I didn’t even know who Carl Schmidt was before yesterday, but now I do. At the very least, Carl and Connor will transform parts of my body into an object lesson for others. If they can find me.

  Charlie’s outside playing and Mom’s in the kitchen when I pull a small metal chest from beneath a pile of shoes and discarded hangers on my closet floor. The chest’s lid is secured by a padlock with a keypad, and I quickly punch in the code, unhook the padlock, and open the box. There’s a gun wrapped in a cotton cloth. Not the one I used on my ex-husband, this is a smaller pistol, a .32 caliber CZ 83 manufactured in the Czech Republic for the Browning Arms Company. The gun’s far from new, but the price was right and a trip to a gun range confirmed its reliability.

  Purchasing the little .32 required no more than a trip to Baxter Guns & Ammo. I walked in, submitted to an instant background check, and walked out with the weapon in my purse. As for Sean’s 9mm, I sent it back to him through a mutual friend. I didn’t know who owned it before Sean or what it was used for.

  The CZ 83’s a bit heavier than most .32s, but still lighter than Sean’s Glock. I bought this model because it has a double-stack magazine. Most .32s hold only six rounds, this holds twelve.

  Annie Oakley I’m not, but I’m not afraid of guns, either. And I know something about them. My .32 isn’t powerful enough to stop a man determined to hurt me, not with a single shot. But twelve bullets will stop anybody, and the CZ 83 will fire as fast as I can pull the trigger. With only minimum recoil.

  Like I said, I’m not the victim type. That doesn’t mean I’m not afraid, or that I’m dismissing the threat. Too many people are saying really bad things about the Schmidts for me to minimize the danger. It’s just that I’m not going down, if I have to go down, without taking somebody with me.

  With only fifteen minutes before I leave for Resurrection, I’m content to sit quietly. No such luck. Mom comes through the door to Charlie’s bedroom bearing a glass full of clear carbonated liquid. Mom doesn’t complain when I come close enough to make sure there’s no alcohol in the glass. She’s dropped off the wagon more than once.

  “Charlie tells me you’re leavin’ town.”

  Charlie doesn’t look away from the pad, but a flush creeps up her neck. The girl has a big mouth, true, but she’s eight years old, and I never swore her to secrecy.

  “There’s a job opening back east, Mom. I’m lookin’ into it.”

  For sure, Mom wants to ask if she’s invited, but that’s all the explanation she’s getting for now. I haven’t made up my mind about her. On the one hand, I wouldn’t mind saying goodbye to my past, especially to my childhood memories. On the other hand, I can’t make myself believe that child care is less expensive in New Jersey.

  With other things on her mind, Mom drops the subject. “Spoke to Katie on the phone a couple minutes ago. Guess what she told me, Git?”

  “That she’s marryin’ the mayor?”

  “That ain’t funny, and Mayor Venn’s already married. Been married for near thirty years.” Mom sips at her drink, a familiar smirk gradually dominating her face. “Nope, Katie tole me the cops was over to Randy’s this afternoon. Servin’ Mason Cheat with papers. According to Katie, Mason was in a cooperatin’ frame of mind.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CONNOR

  The club’s up and running when me and Augie pull into the parking lot. Cully’s at the door, ready to check IDs, but it’s still early and the parking lot’s almost empty. He straightens as we approach.

  “Cops are gone, Connor.”

  “You know why they were here?”

  “Askin’ about Bradley. That he was in the club on Saturday.” Cully pokes at a small dent in his forehead above his left eye. Courtesy of a pool cue. I remember when it happened, and that the fool who wielded the cue disappeared a couple of weeks later. Two rumors sprang up to explain the vanishing act. That he left town in a hurry. That he never made it past the city limits.

  “Mason inside?” I ask.

  “Last time I looked.”

  “He in a good mood?”

  “No idea, Connor. With Mason, you can never tell.”

  I don’t like Randy’s, though I have to spend time here. Business, mostly. The business of connections. I have to be available. What’s up? Whatta ya need? You make yourself hard to find, people forget you.

  But the club’s too sleek for me, like it’s tryin’ too hard. Like it’s the right place for cheating wives and husbands who wanna believe they’re real sophisticated when they’re just out to get laid.

  On the other side of the room, the club’s bartender, Shiloh, is restocking the shelves. He looks up, waves, and says, “In the office.”

  Mason Cheat’s office is as comfortable as his club is hard and slick. A wooden desk and matching file cabinets, a worn swivel chair, an even more worn leather couch. But there’s no window, and the room stinks of cigarette smoke despite a vent fan humming away.

  My father and Mason Cheat are about the same age. They knew each other growing up, and rumor has it they worked together from time to time before Mason went to prison. They’re not partners anymore, not that I know of. But they still respect each other, which means I can’t play the tough guy.

  “Evenin’, Connor.” He nods to me, then to Augie. “Be better if it was just the two of us, Connor. No offense, Augie.”

  Augie waits for me to shrug, then leaves the room. Funny thing about Augie, if I told him to shoot Mason, he’d do that, too. The man likes his work.

  Mason takes his time after the door closes behind Augie. He lights a cigarette, blows the smoke toward the ceiling, flicks the match into a glass ashtray. The ashtray’s blue and looks more like a candy dish, what with its rolled egdes. Me, I’m the beggar at the table. I don’t say anything.

  “Had a call from your old man,” Mason finally says. “Asked me to cooperate. Said you’d tell me what’s goin’ on.”

  “Not much to tell. Bradley had something with him that belongs to me and my father. It’s gone missing, and we want it back.”

  “What’s that have to do with me?”

  “Bradley was in here an hour before he was offed. After he left, he went straight to the Skyview. Had a woman with him, Mason. Did he pick her up here? You got cameras everywhere inside. Probably outside . . .”

  “Lemme correct you right there, Connor. We got no cameras in the parking lot. The inside cameras? They’re about preventin’ a robbery before it happens. But who gets into whose car is no business of ours. We respect our patrons’ privacy.”

  “I guess that’s where the favor comes in.” I don’t think Mason likes it, but I’m not in the mood to spar with him. Yes or no, you’ll help me or you won’t. “I need to see whatever those inside cameras picked up. And I need to talk to anyone who remembers Bradley bein’ in the club.”

  Mason taps his cigarette, dropping the ash into the ashtray. “There’s a flash drive for every camera,” he tells me, “and they left with the cops. Mariola had a subpoena. If I didn’t turn over the video, she’d call in backup and take it.”

&n
bsp; “So what are you tellin’ me? You got nothin’?”

  “Nope. The flash drives are backup for our main computer. I’ve still got every second of the time your boy was in the club. But I got a problem, too. If it should get out, say to Mariola, that I helped you? She wouldn’t like that, Connor, me helpin’ a known criminal. And bein’ as I need a license to sell liquor, what she don’t like, she can do somethin’ about.”

  Mason wants me to think he’s not gonna let me see the video, but I’m not fooled. If he was gonna say no, he would’ve said it to my father. And tough guy or not, he hasn’t got the balls. Mason’s reached a stage in his life where he only wants peace. I don’t blame the man. I could use a little myself.

  “I’ll owe ya, Mason. Me, personally. And the last thing I wanna do is talk this up. This bitch who took me and my father’s property? I wanna keep running into her, if it should happen, completely private.”

  I’m sitting in another small room, Mason’s security room, staring at a computer screen. Augie’s sitting right next to me, at my insistence, and Cully’s standin’ behind us. That’s at Mason’s insistence. But Mason’s not there. He doesn’t wanna know.

  We’re starin’, the three of us, at a woman sitting on a bar stool. She’s wearin’ a green minidress, the skirt pulled up to within a few inches of her crotch. The dress has sequins sewn into the fabric. They’re catching the red light from a sign on the wall behind her and splashing it in every direction. Her arms are bare except for a stack of bangles, and there’s a wedding ring on her finger.

  “Jesus Christ,” Augie says, “that’s gotta be her. Look at the fuckin’ hat.”

  I’m thinking the hat’s white, but it catches so much of the red light I can’t be sure. I’m also thinkin’ the broad’s beautiful, but I can’t be sure about that, either. The hat she’s wearin’ is made of what looks like stiff lace. It’s got a wide brim that curls down in front, and for the most part, she’s sitting with her chin lowered. I’m getting only glimpses of her face, of green eye shadow, of a dark line curling from the corner of an eye, of glossy lipstick over a full mouth. Shiloh’s serving her some kind of drink in a martini glass, his eyes occasionally flicking to the low-cut armholes of her sleeveless dress. Truth be told, if I’d run into her that night, I would’ve been all over her. Like the two guys she rejects as the video rolls on. As it is, I find myself waiting for an upskirt view.

  It’s not happening. I’m watching the video recorded by camera number four. The camera’s positioned high on the wall to her left, and it’s looking down at her hat and shoulders. There’s another camera, too, camera five. This one’s dead center over the bar, and what it shows is Bradley Grieg sitting at a table. The snakeskin bag is on the table beside him. I’d told him not to let it out of his sight, coming or going.

  Bradley’s facing the woman at the bar. He’s got the good view, and I can’t shake the feeling that she’s puttin’ on a show for him, even while she’s rejecting the other guys. And I’m still wishing—and I know Augie’s wishing—it could have been us.

  At ten thirty on the dot, Bradley gets up and walks out the door. The woman says something to Shiloh, then follows. She’s as graceful and sexy goin’ out as she was comin’ in forty-five minutes earlier. But I’m still not gettin’ a good look at her face.

  “I gotta talk to Shiloh,” I tell Cully. “Unless you can tell me who she is.”

  To his credit, Cully doesn’t pretend he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. He mutters, “Never seen her before.” A few minutes later, Shiloh walks into the office.

  He nods to me and Augie. “Whatta ya say, guys?”

  “Evenin’, Shiloh.” My voice doesn’t reveal a hint of my frustration. “You know this woman?” I’ve stopped the video at a point just after Bradley gets up to leave. The woman’s turned to Shiloh, obviously saying something.

  “Know her? Nope. But I remember her. She’s the woman left with Bradley on Saturday night.”

  “Left at the same time? Or left with?”

  “Left at the same time, Connor. I’m sure because she asked me if he was all right. Like was he safe or bad news. I told her . . .” Shiloh looks up for a moment as he searches for the right words. “I told her that he’s a regular and he’s never caused trouble at the club. That was enough, and she followed him out the door.”

  “You ever see her before Saturday night?”

  “Once, about a month ago. And maybe once before that, only I’m not sure. A real beauty, though. The clothes, the makeup? I do love me a woman who knows what she wants. Fact, if she hadn’t trailed after Bradley, I was gonna offer myself as a substitute.”

  “Very good.” Now for the big question. I cross everything, my fingers, my toes, even my eyes. “Did she pay with a credit card?”

  “Sorry, Connor. She put a twenty on the bar.” He scratches the top of his head and smiles. “The broads who come here wearin’ their wedding rings? They never leave a paper trail.”

  I eventually walk out of Randy’s with something half-assed decent to show for the effort. A printed screenshot of the woman. She’s in profile, with her forehead and most of her eyes blocked by the brim of her hat, but it’s the best I can do.

  Augie follows me out of the bar. He’s been keepin’ quiet, but now he lights up a cigarette and sucks down a lungful of smoke. “I’m thinkin’ that I almost know her,” he says.

  “Know who?”

  “The woman offed Bradley. Like I’m not gettin’ a name, but I can’t shake the feelin’ I seen her before. Growin’ up, ya know?”

  “And where’d you grow up, Augie?”

  “The Yards.”

  I show my appreciation with a nod. A place to start, which is good. Meanwhile, I got another appointment to keep.

  “Whatta ya say, Augie? Let’s go have us a talk with Richard Gaitskill and his loving mom. I could use the exercise.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  DELIA

  The alarm bells in my head won’t stop ringing. Don’t do this, don’t do this, don’t do this. But I’m doing it anyway. I can’t help myself. By now, Vern and I have reviewed the video from Randy’s. We’ve isolated the woman in the hat, watched her blow off two men, watched her follow Bradley out the door. But the full-face likeness we needed wasn’t there, and we eventually settled for a series of photos that reveal bits and pieces of her mouth, jawline, and the corner of one eye.

  The chief’s gone by the time we quit, but we leave copies of the photos on his desk, then clock out. We’re off duty now. On our own.

  Fifteen minutes later we’re approaching the counter in the Skyview’s office. Richard and Felice are behind the counter. They’re sifting through a pile of bills, probably deciding which have to be paid and which can be postponed. Matching their needs to their checkbook.

  The Gaitskills are skeptical when I explain what’s about to happen. Felice points out that we have no authority to conduct this little experiment. No court order, not even a note from Chief Black. We’re acting on our own, and we plan to kill a pillow and a sack of rice, both of which I’ve brought with me.

  Earlier, I offered to let Vern off the hook, but he declined. “Fuck it, Delia,” he said. “I wanna know, too. But you understand, as evidence, it’s useless.”

  There’s no denying the observation. We haven’t reproduced the conditions exactly. We’re close, what with the drizzle, but close only holds up in court if the experiment’s conducted by a forensic expert. And even then, a judge might exclude it.

  “We have guests staying here,” Felice tells me.

  Vern picks that moment to step in, his tone reasonable, as usual. “Now, Felice, you have exactly one occupied cabin, and that’s at the opposite end of the property. The people inside won’t even notice.”

  “What if they hear a gunshot? After what happened on Saturday, they’ll go out of their minds.”

  “Did you hear a gunshot on Saturday? I mean, you told us, the both of you, that you didn’t. And knowin’ you as
I do, I believe you were tellin’ the truth.”

  “We were, but—”

  Vern dismisses whatever she planned to say with a wave of his hand. “Look, it’ll only take a couple of minutes. Then you can go back to whatever you were doing.”

  Felice doesn’t like it, but I have the feeling she doesn’t like much of anything. On the other hand, Richard seems indifferent. He knows we’re not going anywhere until we get what we want. He’s the one who hands over the room key. He’s the one who leads Vern to the Skyview’s computer.

  A twenty-pound bag of rice cradled in one arm, a pillow in the other, I walk from the office to Cabin 909. I’m telling myself there’s no other way. Insisting, really. I can’t let this slide. I have to know.

  Inside, I find a room that’s been cleaned by professionals. Every drop of blood, every chunk of brain, every bone shard removed. Not the smell, though. The air-conditioning’s off and the humidity’s at a hundred percent. Try as I might, I can’t escape the faint metallic odor of blood.

  There’s a new mattress on the bed, and I know there’s a chance that I’ll put a hole in it. But not a good one. I’m counting on the twenty-pound bag of rice stopping the single bullet I intend to fire. The way it did on the YouTube video me and Vern watched just before we set out.

  The bed’s aligned as it was on Sunday morning when we responded to the scene. But the drapes, though closed over the room’s single window, have a slight gap at the top. Was it there on Saturday night? The drapes close with a pair of rods at their leading edges. I open and close the rods. No difference. I try it again, this time snapping the rods together. Same result.

  I place the bag of rice on top of the Skyview’s pillow, place the pillow I brought with me on top of the rice, finally bring out my Glock. I don’t give myself a chance to change my mind. I push the Glock’s muzzle into the pillow and pull the trigger.