“Yes, and it wasn’t Connor Schmidt.” Now I’m smiling. “But that leaves you with a bit of a problem. Because the way Connor sees it, if he didn’t steal the money, you must have. So where does that leave you? Without any money to return.”
When I leave it there, Bridget has the good sense not to pursue the issue. She stares down at the table for a moment while she sips at her tea, then suddenly raises her eyes.
“I don’t have time to spar with you. Ask the question.”
“Did Bradley Grieg tell you that he was expecting someone after you left?”
“Is that what you want me to say? That he was expecting someone?”
“No, Bridget—”
“Git.”
“Sorry?”
“My name’s Git. No one calls me Bridget.”
“All right, Git, but what I want you to say doesn’t really matter. I need to know the truth.”
“But you won’t know, not really. Bradley’s dead, and there isn’t anyone to confirm or deny whatever I say. I can make it up as I go along.”
“I want the truth anyway. And I think you need to be straight with me. You have a child, remember?”
I’m hoping to shock her into cooperation, but Git only laughs, and I know I’m dealing with someone who’s seen the worst. An innocent witness who suddenly finds herself the target of the good and the bad guys. So the joke’s on me. I’d come to reassure Bridget O’Rourke, the woman in the hat, but this is one woman who doesn’t need reassurance. She’s not backing off, not an inch.
“You want Connor Schmidt, I’ll give you his head on a platter,” she tells me. “Gift wrapped and tied up with a bow. All you have to do is ask.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CONNOR
The Dew Drop’s my bar of choice after a busy day, and I’m sitting here now, trying to relax. It’s only seven o’clock, but I feel like I been at it for a week. Startin’ with the broad, Gidget. It was fun chasin’ her around the county, somethin’ different, and I would’ve most likely caught her. Or she maybe would’ve given up and faced the music. But a call came through as she turned onto this dirt road, a call from Augie. Last night, one of the kids in Little Ricky’s crew, an asshole named Harlan Brown, piled his car into a traffic light on Baxter Boulevard. Stoned out of his mind, if you can believe that, and carryin’ half an ounce of cocaine. The coke was layin’ on the seat next to him.
It took most of the afternoon to get him bailed out, and now the prick, escorted by Augie, is on his way to the Dew Drop. For a little talk.
The Dew Drop’s slow this early on a Saturday night, but the place’ll fill by nine. Meantime, the owner, Jimmy Santini, has nothin’ to do. In his late sixties, Jimmy’s approached me about becoming a partner, and I’m takin’ the offer seriously. The Dew Drop’s not much to look at—there’s about a thousand names carved into the bar top—but it’s the first bar you pass on Baxter Boulevard when you leave the Yards. If the Yards are developed, that would mean thousands of workers drivin’ by every day. And not the kind of deadbeats who’ll nurse a draft beer all night. I’m seein’ men and women, some of them far from home, with paychecks to spend.
I’m still bullshittin’ with Jimmy when Augie walks in, pushin’ Harlan Brown ahead of him. Brown, who can’t be more than nineteen, looks beat to shit, what with spendin’ the night in jail and coming down off whatever he’s been using. What I heard, there was more coke on his fingers than in the bag.
I motion Augie and the kid over to a corner table. Once they’re sittin’ down, I get straight to the point. “Harlan, I’m thinkin’ you’re too stupid to live. I should put you down, like right now, and I would, except Little Ricky spoke up for you. But here’s what I’m sayin’. You’re outta fuckin’ business. No more dealin’, no more crimes. You so much as pinch a Snickers bar from CVS, I’ll make you dig your own grave. Think I’m kiddin’?”
The kid doesn’t ask me to repeat myself. “No, and I’m sorry, Connor. Really. I know I fucked up.”
Before I fire off a last volley, I watch him rub at one of a line of pimples that trace his right cheekbone. “Here’s what’s in it for you, Harlan. First, the best lawyer in the county is gonna represent you. That would be Lorimer Taub. Second, Ricky’s gonna toss you a few bucks every week to keep you goin’. Third, Lorimer told me there might be a problem with the search, so where there’s life, there’s hope. But if things go wrong and you gotta do some time, then you gotta do that time. I have people in with the cops. If you turn rat, I’m gonna find out. Now go home and sober up. And also grow up while you’re at it. Life ain’t a game for kids.”
Brown dismissed, I order a pizza from Sal’s, the only Italian pizza joint in Baxter. The Dew Drop’s menu is limited to potato chips or pretzels in plastic bags. Somethin’ else that needs fixin’.
“So what about the broad?” Augie asks. “You wanna lay that off on me?”
Actually, what I don’t wanna do is admit how much money I’m out. And I’m also concerned that Augie’s methods could draw attention that I can’t afford right now. That means I’m gonna have to handle the situation myself. Do I walk right up to her door and say, “Hand it over?” Do I wait for her to show herself? Or do I maybe kill the bitch and forget about the money? Do I put the bullshit behind me? One thing sure, I don’t need any more distractions.
I lean back in my chair, about to answer Augie’s question, when the door opens and Gidget walks into the bar, resolving my problems. She’s wearing a dark red, silky blouse, two buttons undone, a triple chain of black beads, and dark blue earrings that look like buttons. Her white jeans fit her ass like they were spray-painted by a graffiti writer.
I’m instantly suspicious, but I don’t think she’s wired up. The pants and blouse are too tight, and she’s not carryin’ a purse. She’s brazen, though, as she walks over to our table and stares down at Augie. I’m lookin’ at the expression on his face and thinkin’ he’s about to jump out of his chair and pound her in the face. And I’d probably let him if we were alone.
“Give us some room, Augie.” Ignoring his disappointed look, I wait for Augie to walk away. He’ll get his chance. Gidget waits, too, then sits without being asked.
“You want somethin’ to drink?”
“I’m not gonna be here that long.” She lays her hand on the table and leans forward, giving me a second to enjoy the view. “I’ve got something you want,” she tells me.
“No. You got something that belongs to me.”
“That’s what I heard. But I took it from Bradley, not you. And the way he treated me, what he did? Let me put it this way. I think I was poorly compensated for what I went through.”
“If you wanted to get even, you should’ve cut his balls off when he passed out. What you took was never his.”
“Now we’re goin’ around in circles.”
I’ve had enough. “Why don’t you just say whatever it is you came to say.”
“Before he fell asleep, Bradley told me I had to leave because he was expecting someone. That would be you, Connor. That would be you.”
“You’re lyin’.”
“Does that matter?”
Jesus, the balls on her. I’m thinkin’ she takes lessons from the other one, her mother, because when I look into her eyes, I’m not readin’ fear.
“Don’t be a jerk. The cops don’t wanna hear that. They got a locked-up case against my old man. They’ll laugh you outta the station.”
“I grew up in the Yards, Connor. I don’t talk to cops. No, I’m thinking I should talk to your father’s lawyer.”
That stops me for a minute. The evidence against my father falls apart if Bradley was expecting me to come calling. The gun was in the old man’s closet, true, but it’s not like I didn’t have access. Or like he isn’t gonna claim the gun was planted anyway.
“You do that, you won’t live long enough to testify.”
“I don’t expect to testify, and I don’t expect to keep your money. I’m just tellin’ yo
u where it stands.”
“Then what do you want?”
She leans forward a little, and I can’t help myself, I stare down at her tits. I think she’s gotta be wearin’ a bra, but I can’t see it.
“I work seventy-two hours a week, Connor, and I’m getting exactly nowhere in life. Every month I’m juggling the bills. Paying this one, putting that one off until next week, or next month if I can get away with it. I have a daughter, too, real smart according to her teachers. I’d like to see her go to college, which I never got a chance to do, but college tuition goes up every fucking day. If you don’t have rich parents, you’re so deep in debt by the time you graduate that you’ll never get out from under.” She leans back, finally, and crosses her legs. “I’m sick of the way I’m livin’, sick of it. You shouldn’t have to work as hard as I do and still be a paycheck away from sleepin’ in your car. But the bad’s on me, Connor. I thought I could stay straight and still lift myself up. What a joke, huh? For people like me, the American dream is exactly that. A fucking dream.”
A nice speech, which has exactly no effect on me. That’s because feeling other people’s pain is not my strong point. “Forget the sob story. Tell me what you want, or take a hike. Like before my pizza’s delivered.”
“I have a proposition for you . . .”
Right away my antenna starts to vibrate. “Legal?”
“Yeah. I want you to buy Microsoft and let me run it.” Her laugh, when it comes, is cool and light, almost mocking, but not exactly. “No, not legal. Not even close.”
Rushing into deals ain’t my style, simple as that, and I take a minute to look around. Three men stand around a battered pool table on the other side of the room. A drunk, here all afternoon and soon to leave, sits hunched over a beer. Two kids, early twenties, in jeans and T-shirts, occupy a table in the center of the room. I’ve never seen them before, and they’re just old enough to be cops.
Gidget isn’t surprised when I stand up. Like she knows how these things work. I tell her, “Outside,” then walk across the room and out the front door. Which way to go? Six vehicles—two cars, three SUVs, and a pickup—are scattered across the parking lot. None are occupied, front or back. There’s a gas station across the street and a drugstore next to the bar. The store is closed, and the gas station’s been out of business as long as I can remember. Every window’s broken.
Still, I’m not satisfied. I lead her to an SUV parked fifty feet away. The SUV’s parked at a sharp angle. Standing behind it, we can’t be seen from the road.
“Trust? It’s not my thing, Gidget,” I tell her. “I gotta pat you down.”
“You want to make sure I’m not wired? Well, knock yourself out.” She moves her arms away from her side, still smiling that same smile. There’s no fear in it. No humor, either. “That’s your only motive, right? Being sure I’m not wearing a wire?”
It’s not my only motive, no, but it’s one of them. I gotta be sure. I run my hands under her arms and around her tits. She doesn’t flinch. Not even when I place my hands on either side of her right ankle and work my way up to her crotch, or when I cover the same territory on her left leg.
I can’t help it. The balls on her, on her and her halfway-to-the-grave mother, turn me on. Maybe I been payin’ for it too long, but I’m seein’ her next to me in the clubs where I do business. My woman.
I step back, and she returns her arms to her side. “Okay, Gidget. Say what you gotta say.”
“My name’s Git.”
“What?”
“My name is Git, not Gidget.” She pauses, but I got nothin’ to say. “Okay, it’s like this. My cousin, Wyatt, who lives in Jackson Lake, moves top-shelf cocaine. All he can get, which is never enough, especially during the tourist season. Me, I want to supply him, simple as that.”
“That’s noble, and I appreciate family values. Just ask my daddy. But what does your cousin in Jackson Lake have to do with my money?”
“Two ounces, that’s the trade. I give you back your money, which from my point of view I think I earned, and you front me two ounces of first-cut blow. Front me, right? As in I’ll pay for it in a couple of weeks.”
I can’t help myself, I burst out laughing. This is not a conversation I expected to have when me and Augie ordered that pizza.
Cool and calm, Git waits for me to finish. She’s not kidding, and I’m already getting ideas. Doing regular business means regular visits. Lots of contact.
“Don’t get me wrong, Connor. I came up in the Yards and I know how things work. You take care of me and I’ll take care of you. The money will always be good and always be right. I just need this front to get started. After that, it’s cash on the barrelhead.” A smile, long in coming, lights her face. “I think we’ll get along, Connor. Really. In fact, I think you could become a coconspirator with privileges if you play your cards right. Would you like that? Privileges?”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CONNOR
So, yeah, I would, and I proved it by takin’ one of Dew Drop’s regulars, a skank named Sarah, home for the night. It seemed like a good idea at the time, only I can’t put the woman, Git-not-Gidget, out of my mind. But I can put Sarah out of my little cottage, which I do as soon as she finishes her shower. I’m not cruel about it. Humiliation was Bradley’s game. I tell her I’ve got business I need to get started on, so please . . .
I’m dreaming of the girl in the hat before the door closes behind Sarah. First the look in her eyes when she put that coconspirators-with-privileges deal on the table. Then the video of her on that stool in Randy’s, of the dress with all those sequins, of her long, smooth legs when she crossed them. This is a woman who knows what she wants. This is a woman who grew up hard enough to do whatever it takes. No delusions.
My phone rings twice before I finish my breakfast. The first is from Mom. She’s getting along with her sister, and Denver agrees with her. The mountains are spectacular. The second is from Lenny Krone. He needs to “refuel,” which amounts to a key of coke, not necessarily first grade. I don’t bother with yes or no. For all his big mouth, Lenny’s always been reliable. Yeah, he’ll whine about the price or the place of delivery or the fucking weather. But the money’s always there. I never have to chase him.
I get on the burner right away. A hard unit of regular and two soft units of the best. A key and two ounces. I’m thinking of the ounces as an investment. Roughly four grand in exchange for eighteen grand. What happens next depends on Git. Just now, I’m hoping we’ll get along, because I’ve been lookin’ for an out-of-town distributor. But the deal can go bad, and I tuck a Colt .38 auto inside my belt as I head out the door.
The cool weather catches me off guard. It’s been sweltering for the last few days, but now it seems more like early May, when the last of the winter snow has finally melted. The weather out here is the worst. Freezing winters followed by blazing hot summers. A winter wind that doesn’t quit. Motionless air in summer that weighs on you like a wet overcoat.
But not today. I ride north with the Camry’s windows open, a steady breeze whipping through the interior, an AC/DC classic blasting away. My destination lies sixty miles west, in a shopping center off I-80. Unlike the mostly abandoned strip malls in Baxter, this one’s anchored by a Lowe’s, a CVS, and a Kroger supermarket. It’s closing on eleven when I arrive, and the mall is busy. I have to cruise around for several minutes before I spot the gray van parked in a corner close to the I-80 on-ramp. The swap goes quickly from there, a package from me, a package from a dark-skinned man I’ve never seen before, and on my way.
No more AC/DC, no more high volume. Now it’s country and western, some wannabe cowboy moaning about his lost love. Swear to God, it could’ve been written twenty years ago. Or fifty. But it’s safe, which is how I like to play it when I’m transporting product. Not that I’m worried. Our guy . . . No, it’s my guy now, John Meacham. He called me this morning. Mariola and her partner, Vern Taney, have been summoned by our district attorney to work on my f
ather’s prosecution. On a weekend, no less. They’ll be out of action until late afternoon.
Forty minutes out of town, I stop for coffee and a doughnut. I’m in the car, sipping at the coffee, when I call Git on my personal cell phone. The burner’s reserved for business with my suppliers.
“Git, you know who this is?”
“Yeah, I do.”
Her confident tone cheers me. I’m thinking more and more long-term. “Is it a go?”
“It is on my end. And you?”
“I’m on the way.”
“And you have . . . what you promised?”
“Thirty minutes, Git, and you’re not runnin’ the show.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
I pride myself on discipline, the waiting game. Just ask my old man. But it takes everything I have not to ram the gas pedal into the floorboards. I can’t afford to be stopped, maybe subjected to a random search, even if it wouldn’t stand up in court. Cool, cool, cool. Just another hunk of metal rolling down the street. Not worth more than a glance. Meanwhile, I can already feel the silky smoothness of Git’s inner thigh beneath my fingertips. I have a slow hand, like in that song, call it the long game . . .
I come into town on the northern end of Baxter Boulevard, headed directly for Git’s house on the other side of town. For once, the lights work in my favor and I coast all the way to city hall before a police cruiser, lights flashing, pulls into the intersection ahead of me. I turn the wheel instinctively, trying to go around, when a second cruiser pulls in from the opposite direction. Now the intersection is totally blocked, and I don’t have to look into the rearview mirror to know there are cruisers behind me.
An adrenaline surge threatens to overwhelm me. I’ve been sold out, and I don’t have to guess who did the selling. She’s dead, of course, because I’ll never stop coming after her. No. I warned the bitch. I told her, You’ll never testify. And she won’t. The only issue is whether I settle for her or whether I kill her kid, too. And there’s John Meacham, standing outside of his cruiser, gun in hand. He looks like he’s about to cry, and I know he’s been suckered. Him and me both.
The Yards Page 20