I wasn’t angry, just resigned. A couple of years earlier, I’d found out that my high school buddy was a complete junkie. I’m talkin’ about in the gutter, with nothing to look forward to except an overdose. I lifted him up, paid for his rehab, put him to work after his release. My old man told me again and again (the asshole never stops once he gets going) that Bradley Grieg was weak by nature, and natures don’t change. I should cut him out of my working life, cut him out altogether.
Well, the time had come. That’s the long and short of it. I knew he’d get in the wind if he woke up and found the money gone. And I would bet he couldn’t name the individual, surely a woman, who stole the money. That’s because only someone who didn’t know Bradley or his connections could hope to get away with it. But his utter weakness tipped the scales. Bradley was a dope addict, and he always would be, at least until he finally got busted.
As I stood there listening to the asshole snore, I imagined him in a holding cell, the sickness comin’ on fast. How long before he decided to trade Connor Schmidt’s time for his? Ten minutes? Fifteen?
I took one precaution, but only one. I stepped outside, into the rain, and checked the security cameras mounted over the office, the only cameras on the property. I couldn’t even see them.
I was on my way to toss the gun into Grant Lake, about forty miles from Baxter, when I began to have second thoughts. The Glock stashed in my trunk had been used to commit a murder that my old man had a motive to commit. Maybe I should hang on to it, at least until I felt some heat coming from the local cops. I couldn’t exactly hear opportunity knocking. It was more like footsteps approaching my door.
The Gaitskills came next. They weren’t part of any puzzle, not at first, but they had to go. First, because they gave that video to the cops, then lied when they told me the cops just took it. Mariola would need a subpoena to seize the video, a subpoena signed by a judge. She couldn’t have gotten a judge to sign off two hours after the body was discovered.
I tried to send a really simple message that night. Don’t talk to the cops. But when I came back the next day, the cops were back, too. With Richie and his mom obviously cooperating.
When opportunity knocks, open the door.
I took out Felice Gaitskill before she knew what hit her. Bang, bang, bang. Here and fucking gone. But Richie got so piss-in-his-pants scared when he heard the shots that he actually jumped out of an upstairs window. He was lying on his back when I caught up with him, staring into my eyes, beggin’ for his miserable life. I felt a little bit sorry for him. I mean, I could’ve been wrong about him and his mom cooperating. I could’ve. But they knew too much about me, way too much, and they weren’t really committed to the life. If Mariola put the screws to them, which she would, they’d probably turn. Better safe than sorry.
So, it was done. Three dead, the murders linked, the weapon (wiped down with bleach) safely planted in Daddy’s closet. Only one step remained—getting the cops to the gun.
Marjorie Carver was my old man’s girlfriend, and he did nothing to hide the fact. Took her everywhere—out to dinner, drinking with his buddies, even to movies. Mom knew, of course, but so what? She wasn’t about to confront her husband or his mistress. Then Marjorie went off on some woman and got herself charged with a third-strike felony. No surprise, my old man dropped her cold. Marjorie who?
Was she scared, facing all those years? Not Marjorie. The woman is almost as tough as Mariola. And just as smart. She wanted out, and she’d do whatever was necessary to make that happen.
Lorimer Taub was the final piece of the puzzle. Taub had been handling our affairs for years, representing any member of our crew who got busted. (And making sure they didn’t rat.) I was the Schmidt who dealt with him, naturally. My daddy kept his distance, also naturally. That’s why my old man didn’t know that I’d been feeding the shyster’s coke habit for many, many months. Not with heavy-cut shit, either, but with a grade of blow the lawyer could never find on his own.
I sent Taub to Marjorie with a simple message, which she got right away. She could buy her freedom and my eternal gratitude by telling a simple story. Telling a story and stickin’ to it. Which she did. As for Mom? I didn’t ask her to plant the gun. I planted it myself when she and my father were off to a christening.
I take Mom’s arm. I want to lead her away from the chaos. It’s instinct to protect your mother, and I know it’s been hard for her. But at least I didn’t ask her to make anything up. Mom does take a sleeping pill at night, and she can’t supply the old man with an alibi. She told the truth, kept it simple, the fewer moving parts the better.
We’re still on the porch when Mariola walks up to us. “Come with me,” the bitch says.
This is not a request. This is do it or I’ll make you do it. Swear to God, if she ever turns, I’ll ask her to work for me. She and Augie would make a hell of a pair.
“Think I don’t know?” she asks. “You think I’m a fool?”
We’re standing in the shade of a huge maple that has to be a hundred years old, but I’m sweating anyway. The summers out here are brutal.
“You don’t know what, Lieutenant?”
“Know you set your father up.”
I laugh. “You have a suspicious mind.”
Mariola would be something of a looker if she wasn’t so obviously butch. It’s not just the short hair or the man-tailored suit. Most women, if you look close, you can see how—underneath all the bullshit about women’s rights—they’re scared. And for good reason. Men are much bigger, and they have all the guns.
Not Mariola. If we were still teenagers, I’m thinking she’d punch me right in the mouth. Just for the fun of it.
“I want you to know,” she says, “that I’m taking the deal.”
“And what deal would that be.”
“Your father for you. A kingmaker’s move, Connor, and well executed.”
I can’t help myself. The praise turns me on. And it’s nice to know that she’s takin’ the deal without me having to put it on the table. Now for the bad news.
“The way I see it,” she tells me, “you and your old man, you were a pair. Taking both of you out at the same time was never on the table, especially with your old man laying low. But now you’re alone, Connor. It’s just you and me.”
Balls, like I said. Serious fucking balls.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CONNOR
Everybody stiffens when I enter the little room at the Dew Drop. They don’t rise, that would be too much, and they don’t kiss my ring, either, like they kissed Michael Corleone’s ring in The Godfather. But the principle is the same. The torch has been passed—or stolen, really, which makes no difference—and it’s time to make allegiances clear.
Augie’s there, along with Little Ricky, the Murphy brothers, Juan Santos, and Lenny Krone. It’s not the Gambino crime family, but this isn’t New York or Chicago. What’s important is that each of these guys heads a crew. They were my father’s lieutenants. Now they’re mine.
That’s the plan, anyway.
“My father’s gone for good,” I tell them, which they already know because I told Augie to make the point before I got here. “They found the gun in his closet . . .”
“The gun that killed Bradley?” This from big-mouth Lenny Krone.
“Bradley and the Gaitskills. All three. And my father’s not gettin’ out, Lenny. They’re holding him without bail while the DA decides whether or not to seek the death penalty.”
“Pardon my sayin’ so, Connor, but you don’t seem too upset.”
“First thing, Lenny, my emotional state is not your business. Second, Bradley was my best friend goin’ back to high school. He was a fuckup, yeah, but that didn’t give my old man leave to put him in the ground.”
True, right? My father had no right to kill Bradley, and he didn’t.
I’m tired by the time we break up. Really exhausted. But I have to get something to eat. There’s nothing in the cottage except for microwa
ve popcorn, and Mom’s sure to be asleep. So I’m sitting with Augie at the Courthouse Diner, shoveling the pot roast special into my mouth. I want to get home, watch a little TV, get some rest. Maybe tomorrow I’ll find an hour for my truck-stop teenie. Tonight, it’s my bed and a good night’s sleep.
Augie’s eating an open-faced turkey sandwich smothered in gravy, some of which now decorates his chin. He’s going on about collections, which have suffered over the past week. That’s not good. Deadbeats being deadbeats, you have to stay on top of them every minute.
“Oh, yeah, Connor,” he says out of nowhere. “Something I almost forgot. I’m in the Dew Drop this afternoon, sittin’ at the bar, when this broad walks up to me. Swear to God, Connor, she looks like she just popped out of a coffin.” Augie pauses long enough to chase a mouthful of turkey with what remains of his beer. “She marches up to my table and says, `If your boss is still lookin’, I’ll be in the Dew Drop tomorrow afternoon. He doesn’t show, I’m gonna give up on the whole thing.’”
I’m remembering the skank and how she turned down five hundred for the name of the girl in the hat. She also made a threat. If I didn’t up the ante, she’d approach my old man. That’s not gonna happen, obviously, but I’m kind of surprised that she didn’t let it go. Maybe she wasn’t bullshitting after all.
“The bitch wants a loan,” I tell Augie. “But it looks to me like she’ll drop dead before she makes the first payment.”
Augie laughs, then says, “Thing about it, I’m pretty sure I recognized her.”
“Pretty sure? Or sure?”
“No, I’m sure. Remember when I was on the basketball team and we won the championship? In high school? Well, she was like the guest of honor at a victory party. We kept fillin’ her nose with coke, and she kept goin’ all night, her and two other girls. Meantime, she’s gotta be ten years older than us. At least.”
“She was a whore?”
“A whore for coke, maybe. But no money changed hands, and when I propositioned her a week later, she told me to get lost.”
“Yeah, she’s got a mouth on her. So what else?”
“I asked around a little bit, and I think I could find her. Her name, which came to me later, is Celia Graham. What I heard, she lives with her daughter.”
“Her daughter?”
“Yeah, a real mousy type. Grew up in the Yards, but keeps to herself these days.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Means she moved out of the Yards when she had a kid.” Augie laughs softly. “Means she thinks she’s too good for people like us. Me, I can’t imagine why. Refined as we fucking are.”
The Dew Drop is what passes for a neighborhood tavern in Baxter. That means the rails on the pool table have enough dead spots to fill a cemetery. It means the owner-bartender, Jimmy Santini, encourages patrons to carve their names into the bar top. And though Santini will mix you a cocktail, you’d be a fool to drink it.
It’s late by the time I arrive, almost ten o’clock, and I’m thinking the crone will have come and gone. But she’s there, off by herself at a table near the end of the almost deserted bar. I nod to Mary-Jo and a couple of patrons, but walk directly to the crone’s table. She’s waiting for me to take a seat, a glass of what looks like tea on the table in front of her.
“We’ll talk outside,” I tell her.
I don’t wait for an argument. This is not a negotiation. I walk back out and cross the parking lot to my Lexus. When I turn around, she’s following, so skinny I’m thinking that if she falls, her bones will shatter like glass. I wait until she reaches me, then toss an envelope onto the Lexus’s hood.
“Three grand, Celia. First and final offer. Start talkin’ or don’t come back. I don’t need any more bullshit in my life.”
If using her name catches her by surprise, she doesn’t show it. She looks me straight in the eye and says, “I know you got taken for a bunch, Connor. Thousands, right? But I don’t know exactly how much . . .”
“Eighteen grand, Celia. Eighteen thousand fucking dollars.”
“I thought it was less, but—but I don’t know where it’s stashed.”
“This I can believe. If you knew where it was, you’d have stolen it long ago.”
“Why does a man with no time for bullshit talk bullshit? I know the woman who took your money. If you want it back, you’re gonna have to deal with her.”
“Trust me, I’m prepared. Why don’t you pick up that envelope and give me a name?”
I watch her snatch the envelope as she says the magic words: “Git O’Rourke.”
“And who is she to you?”
“My daughter.”
“You’re giving up your daughter?”
The woman actually snarls, unleashing a mass of wrinkles that crisscross the ones already there. “She’s leavin’ town, headed east to a wonderful new life. Takin’ my granddaughter with her.”
“And leaving you behind?”
“Leaving me behind to fucking die.”
“So when is she leaving?”
“Two weeks.”
“That doesn’t give me a lot of time.”
“Whose fault is that? I been tryin’ to reach you all week.”
Truth be told, the crone looks ready to drop dead on the spot, and I can’t see her lasting very long on her own. No. Most likely, she’ll burn through every dime on her way to a coffin. How long will it take? A month?
“You can’t hurt that child,” she tells me. “I won’t have it.”
“I don’t hurt kids.”
“And you won’t kill my daughter, either.”
“No killing, Celia. I only want what she stole.”
This is a lie. Kill her, no. Hurt her, yes. That’s what the boys expect. Anything less would show weakness, at least in their eyes, even if she returns the money. I can’t afford to appear weak. Not now.
“She ain’t like me,” the crone says. “The girl scares easy, so you shouldn’t have much trouble convincing her. Anyways, tomorrow morning, around ten, she’s gonna take her kid to Baxter Park. Charlie’s goin’ away to camp for the weekend. That done, she’ll be alone.”
“What about friends? Anyone I should know about?”
“Nah. The girl runs around with her nose in the air. Thinks she’s too good for trash like us. But if you wanna worry about somethin’, you should worry she’ll run to the cops.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
DELIA
The mayor’s not wasting any time. Chief Black, either. They schedule a press conference for six o’clock, when the nightly news kicks off. Me, I don’t argue. I have enough to do getting Carl booked and locked away. Tomorrow morning, when he’s arraigned, his lawyer will ask for bail. It won’t be granted. Judge Eric Dunn’s hang-’em-high attitude has gotten him elected and reelected for twenty-five years. Bail at any price is not on the table. Not for accused murderers. If Carl Schmidt wants out, he’ll have to escape.
So I’m busy supervising everything from the paperwork to the handling of the mostly irrelevant evidence we seized at the house. The incriminating material is already in the hands of the State Police Lab. Vern’s with me, copying the memory card from the Dink’s camera, when I feel a tap on my shoulder. It’s Chief Black’s aide, a patrolwoman named Bea Thatcher.
“You’re wanted,” she tells me, “in the chief’s office.”
The mayor’s sitting to one side of the chief’s massive wooden desk when I enter the office. Vern’s after his share of the credit, par for the course and no surprise. But the presence of Gloria Meacham, president of the city council and sister of John Meacham, catches me off guard. She’s sitting on the other side of the desk, the chief between them.
The first thought to enter my addled brain? I’ve ridiculed the Dink one too many times and I’m about to get canned. Or at least seriously chewed out. I look directly at Gloria Meacham, a short woman who grew up on a farm and maybe spent too much time in the sun. Her face and neck are heavily wrinkled, and she appears far older
than her forty-odd years. But there’s nothing old about her manner. The woman’s blue eyes are intelligent, penetrating, and fixed on mine.
After a moment’s scrutiny Meacham nods to me and clears her throat. She even smiles. “May I call you Delia, Lieutenant?”
“Sure.”
“What I tell you now, Delia, has to be kept under wraps for another week or two. Understand? It’s really important.”
“You have my word.”
“As I’ve said, Baxter’s been an enterprise zone for some years. Federal, state, and local. Well, it’s finally paid off. Nissan is going to open an assembly plant here in Baxter. It’ll start turning out cars three years from now. Be a lot of construction before then, too. Work for anybody who wants a job.”
Baxter? No fucking way, is what I’m thinking. The country’s halfway in a depression. But Gloria Meacham looks most of all proud. Chief Black and Mayor Venn, too. Perhaps that’s because their families settled the territory shortly after the Revolution. The city was never a way station for them. Never a stepping-stone. Its collapse had to be like a death in the family, its revival a resurrection.
“What about the recession? New car sales are in the dumpster.”
“Corporations like to think ahead. Nobody’s buying cars right now, but the first Nissans won’t roll off the Baxter assembly line for three years. Hopefully, the economy will be on the mend. Hopefully, there’ll be a lot of pent-up demand. In any event, Baxter Packing’s decision to leave the city was the final piece of the puzzle. With the plant shuttered, the industrialized sections of the Yards will be completely empty. That works to our advantage because the infrastructure’s already there, the power grid and the roads. With a little tweaking, they can be made to service Nissan’s individual needs. At the same time, Nissan can place their factory where there’s room to grow.”
Mayor Venn chimes in after Gloria finishes her last sentence. “I won’t bore you with a list of concessions the state had to make. I’ll just say the competition was intense. Fifteen states wanted the factory, and they all put in a bid. The way it stands now, our taxpayers will pay a high price for the new jobs, and they’ll be paying for a long time. But even heavily automated, the plant will provide more than five thousand jobs. There’ll be support businesses, too. Everything from precision machine parts to interior fabrics.” Venn’s shoulders finally relax, as if he’s relieved himself of an obscure burden. “The feds are supplying start-up money, fifty million dollars for demolition. All the empty factories will come down, roads will be widened, new businesses will spring up. Baxter will live, Delia.”
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