The Yards

by The Yards (epub)

  “You know the drill, Connor.” It’s Mariola, over the cruiser’s public address system. “Get out of the car and lie on the ground.”

  And that’s it. Just the one command, like the bitch is hopin’ I won’t obey. But I’m not stupid. The dope’s locked in the trunk, along with the Colt, and I’m enough of an optimist by nature to hope the cops don’t have a warrant. I open the door slowly, get out slowly, lower myself to the ground, slowly. The cops swarm me a few seconds later, searching me for weapons I don’t have. I’m expecting the handcuffs next, but I’m pulled to my feet instead. Mariola’s right there, standing a few feet away, the expression on her face unreadable.

  “Mind if we search your car?”

  “You have a warrant?”

  “Nope, just a tip that you’re transporting drugs.”

  “A tip? From who, Detective?”

  “It’s Lieutenant Mariola, and please answer the question. Do we have your permission? Yes or no?”

  Four cops, including Vern Taney, stand close enough to hear my response. “No warrant, no search. You don’t have my permission.”

  Mariola looks over at Taney. Both are smiling now. “Get the dog,” she says.

  The dog’s an ugly mutt that reminds me of the dogs you see in a cage on ASPCA commercials. Pitiful, right? Only the animal’s all business, yanking on the leash as she circles the car, stopping on a dime when she reaches the trunk, barking madly as she drops into a sitting position. In court, they call it probable cause. In court, the dog justifies the search.

  I look directly into Mariola’s eyes while Taney opens the Camry’s front door and tugs on the trunk release. I’m trying for defiance, or at least rage, but my heart drops as the trunk’s lid rises. Everything I worked for, every dream, gone now. Several cops peer inside as the dog’s pulled away, but it’s Taney who reaches in to retrieve the zipped backpack. I watch him open it, listen to him shout, “Bingo,” watch him lift the kilo into the air.

  “Field-test it,” Mariola orders. Then, to me, “How much am I lookin’ at, Connor? A pound? A kilo?”

  “I’m not talkin’ to ya. I want a lawyer.”

  “Good idea, Connor, because that much cocaine? We’re talkin’ a Class A felony. You’ll go to prison for the next thirty years. But look at the bright side. Maybe you and daddy can share a cell, enjoy a bit of family time. Or maybe you can put out hits on each other.”

  Mariola reaches out to spin me around. I want to kill her, to kill every fucking one of them, to grab the bitch who set me up and burn her alive, but I offer no more resistance than a five-year-old. And I don’t resist, either, when she pulls my right hand behind my back and locks the cuff around my wrist, or when she does the same with my left. It’s her words that stop me, and the triumphant tone. She said she’d get me, and now she has.

  “You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to a lawyer, anything you say can be used against you.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  GIT

  Delia stays until Connor’s call, then heads out to lead the arrest team. Vern Taney’s already on the street. We’re hoping, all of us, including Mom, that Augie Barboza’s traveling with Connor, two birds with one stone. I want the pair of them off the street until I pick up Charlie. Then we’re out of here.

  Clothes, personal possessions, important documents, and that’s it. We’re leaving the furniture behind, and I’m going to sell my car for cash after we settle in New Jersey. Delia thinks Connor’s organization will crumble, what with father and son behind bars, but there are no guarantees. And it’s not Delia or her boy under threat. It’s me and Charlie and Mom.

  Mom’s moving about the house, restless, her nerves on edge. I know she wants a drink. Alcohol has always been her refuge. That’s not happening, but I can taste her gratitude when Delia calls an hour later. And the news she conveys is good, for her at least. In addition to the ounces meant for me, Connor was transporting a larger amount of cocaine, probably a kilo. The cocaine part is definite, confirmed by a field test.

  “He’ll be arraigned tomorrow before Hang-em-High Dunn. Bail will be close to half a million dollars, cash. Connor won’t be able to raise that much right away, if he can raise it at all.”

  Am I supposed to be cheered, relieved, even grateful? Augie Barboza wasn’t in the car when Delia closed the trap on Connor. Connor was alone, hardly surprising since he was en route to the home of a woman he expected to screw. Meanwhile, I’m more scared of Augie than of Connor.

  Zack described Augie and Connor as joined at the hip. Worse, according to Zack, Augie’s mainly a loan shark and willing to do whatever’s necessary if borrowers don’t pay. Dealing out pain is an everyday occurrence. Again, in Zack’s telling, Augie was in high school, Connor a few years past, when he and Connor met. Out of control at that point, Augie was in fights every day, usually over an imagined slight. Connor took a chance on him, a chance that paid off and earned him Augie’s unconditional loyalty. That made Connor one for two. He’d taken a chance on Bradley Grieg as well.

  Mrs. Finder at Charlie’s camp isn’t pleased when I tell her that I’ll be coming for Charlie tomorrow morning.

  “You know,” she tells me, her tone sweetly condescending, “the children find sudden changes traumatic. It’s only one more day.”

  “I’ll be there by ten o’clock. I’d appreciate you having her ready. But one way or the other, she’s leaving.”

  “Well, you’re the parent . . .”

  Yes, I am, and I prove it by hanging up. Now I have a choice, and Mom knows it, too. The look on her face is expectant. She’s waiting for me to decide. I’m due tonight at Resurrection, where I’ll be reasonably safe, but that can’t happen. I won’t leave Mom alone to deal with Augie.

  “Maybe he won’t think it’s you,” she says out of nowhere.

  Mom has a habit of leaving important information out of her conversations, like I’m somehow following the thoughts traveling through her brain. But this time I get it. I went into the Dew Drop wearing jeans that haven’t fit me in a couple of years and a blouse tight enough to hug my belly and back. No purse. We’d assumed that Connor would be suspicious, and we wanted to put him off his guard. In fact, one of the black earrings I wore, the size of a sweater button, contained a tiny transmitter. A block away, Delia picked up every word, probable cause to search Connor’s vehicle. The dog was insurance, and an added factor to confuse Connor. Hopefully.

  “You’re talking about the second package?”

  “Yeah, Git. Connor had your ounces, plus another kilo. So who set him up? You or whoever was buyin’ the kilo? Or maybe no one, maybe Connor was bein’ harassed and the cops got lucky.”

  “He’ll figure it out fast enough when I disappear. And if there’s a trial, I’ll have to show up.”

  “True, but with Connor and his old man lookin’ at decades in prison, what’s left of the crew’s gonna have enough on its hands without worryin’ about you.”

  “What about Augie?”

  “I been knowin’ Augie since he was in high school. He ain’t got the leadership skills of a virus. It’ll take a miracle for him to run his own operation. He won’t be lookin’ to run someone else’s.”

  The idea is so enticing, it takes me a while to come up with the flaw. “What about the money? The eighteen thousand everybody thinks I stole? And Augie knows. He was in the Dew Drop when I arrived. The look in his eye, Mom. He wanted to beat the crap out of me, then and there. No, I gotta think he’s gonna make a move. I think he’s gonna make a move, and he’s not the type to wait around.”

  I call Zack Butler. Reluctantly. I don’t want to admit that I set Connor up, not to Zack, whose relationship with the legit world is shaky at best. But that’s why I need his advice, if not his protection. With him, it’s been there, done that.

  “Hey, Git, you won’t believe this, but I’m in Chicago. Workin’ on my consortium.”

  “Well, the shit’s hit the fan back here. Connor’s been arrested.�
�� I take a few seconds before I work up the courage to reveal the important part. “I set him up, Zack. After he found me, right?”

  “You say he found you?”

  “He was outside the house when I got home yesterday. And he followed my car later on.”

  “Tell me the story, Git. All of it.”

  And I do, leaving nothing out, including my attempt to lure Connor into that clearing and my trip to the Dew Drop.

  “Connor’s off the street, which is all to the good. And Connor had a kilo that was meant for someone else. Maybe he’ll blame whoever it was meant for instead of me.”

  “Git, you can testify against him. That’s motivation enough, even if you didn’t set him up. And another thing you might consider. If you should die an unnatural death tonight, Connor has a perfect alibi.” He clears his throat. “Best move on the board? Don’t be where Augie can find you. And what about Charlie?”

  “Charlie’s at a mini-camp. And I’m taking your advice. I’m gonna pick Charlie up tomorrow and head for New Jersey. But I don’t know how much that helps. Like you said, I’ll be needed if there’s a trial. That means I’ll have to let Mariola know where I’m living. Can she keep my address secret? If it’s in a file somewhere? Or will I spend the next five years looking over my shoulder, suspecting every strange face? Or worse, be caught off guard?”

  “Look, the Schmidts’ operation ain’t the Gambino crime family. Get out now, let the future take care of itself.”

  Chad Gotosky smiles at Mom as we march through the front door of Rapid-Fire Arms, the larger of the two gun shops in Baxter. Mom and Chad are roughly the same age. They were in high school together and at least marginally involved. That’s what she told me on the way over, but Chad’s grin speaks to something deeper. Contemporaries or not, they’re a study in opposites. Chad’s in great shape, with cannonball biceps and forearms thick enough to roast. His neck is wider than his head.

  “Hey there, Celia. Haven’t see you in . . . let’s see, maybe five years.”

  “Guess you lost my number.”

  “C’mon now, girl. I been inside this store six days a week for the past fifteen years. I ain’t hard to find. So what can I do ya for?”

  “I’m not here to buy tomatoes, Chad. I need a gun.”

  Handguns dominate a display case that runs the length of the shop, the exception being a three-foot section at one end exhibiting knives of every size and shape. The walls, too, are crowded, though here most of the weapons are rifles and shotguns. Just behind us, accessories crowd a freestanding display case, everything from a purse with a built-in holster to thick body armor. While I’m not afraid of guns, my technical knowledge of how they work is strictly limited. I doubt if Mom is any more experienced.

  “It’s for home protection,” I tell Chad, which is technically true.

  “Uh-huh. And who’s gonna do the protectin’, you or Celia?”

  Mom cuts me off. “I am, Chad”

  “What’s your skill level?”

  “Pull the trigger, try not to flinch.”

  Chad’s personality suits his occupation. His smile is quick and genuine. “Well, Celia,” he says, “that approach is fine when you’re plinkin’ away at a shooting-range target. But if there’s a man in your home, an intruder prepared to do you harm, pullin’ the trigger and hopin’ for the best won’t cut it. When you do fire your weapon, you wanna be damn sure that you put whoever’s in front of you on an express train to hell.” Another smile, this one accompanied by a wink and a nod. “Now, most gun dealers, at this point, would recommend one of these shotguns.” He gestures at several displayed on the wall behind him. “Only there’s a problem usin’ a long gun of any kind in a home. Too many obstacles to avoid. You poke it around a corner and it maybe gets knocked out of your hand. No, I got somethin’ that does the same job without the drawbacks.” Not missing a beat, he removes a black box from the display case in front of him and opens it. “Now, full disclosure, this Remington Tac-14, which fires 12-gauge shotgun shells, ain’t a shotgun. Not by the feds’ definition. That because it don’t have a stock. It’s manufactured with a pistol grip. That’s not an alteration, folks. What you’re seein’ came out of the factory just like that.”

  The weapon, with its short barrel, appears to be less than two feet. That’s my guess, and I’m off by only a couple of inches.

  “Twenty-six-point-three inches,” Chad declares. “And the way you hold it, down near your hip, it’s ready to fire. Now—”

  Mom stops him. “That gun’s about as long as my forearm. And you’re tellin’ me it’s legal?”

  “Yes, it is, Celia. See, according to the feds, a shotgun has a stock you press into your shoulder. This weapon has a pistol grip, so it fits into the category of general firearms. It’s a hundred percent legal.” Another smile before Chad presses the grip against his thigh. “You don’t aim this gun. You fire from the hip, with your hand pressed tight against your body to handle recoil.”

  “And it’s accurate?”

  “Put it this way. You won’t be firin’ at a duck flyin’ two hundred feet in the air. No, ma’am. You’ll be shootin’ at somebody on the other side of a room. You won’t miss.”

  We make a stop on the way home, at Jackson Movers. Weekends are prime time for people moving, and I’m not surprised to find it open. But I haven’t come to arrange a move. I’d have to give my new address to the movers. I’m leaving all the furniture behind, even the dishes.

  I buy a dozen small boxes, carry them back to the house, and begin to pack. Clothes, a few books, Charlie’s toys, of which there are many, important papers, of which there are few. A closet shelf bears all there is of the family’s past. A few photos of my grandparents, of Charlie as a baby, of my wedding (which I’d as soon forget), Charlie’s report cards, a birthday card Charlie made for me at school. The birthday card is bright red and shaped like a heart.

  The look on Charlie’s face when she handed it to me rises up, as clear as a photograph. So proud, so proud.

  Suddenly I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, crying. I’m remembering my own expectations, the hope that’s every child’s birthright. Smashed, torn apart, beaten down. And what of Charlie’s future? Without me, she’ll be thrown into the same cauldron that shaped my own life. I’m what stands between her and . . . I don’t want to think about it. Foster care? Try Hell on Earth.

  “C’mon, Git. Suck it up. If the scumbag shows his face tonight, we’re gonna find ourselves free and clear by morning.”

  Mom looks so frail, like a spring breeze would knock her on her ass. She has no right to her optimism, but she seems eternally hopeful.

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “I won’t make any mistakes. But it seems so unfair.”

  The phone interrupts a conversation that was going nowhere. Delia calling.

  “What’s the news, Lieutenant?”

  “Connor’s in a cell, and he’ll stay there at least until tomorrow. But we had to give him his phone call.”

  “Lemme guess . . . he didn’t call his lawyer. He called Augie Barboza.”

  “That’s right, Git. Are you home?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then you need to get out. I’m going to have a patrol car cruise past your place tonight, but I can’t station a unit in front of the house.”

  At six o’clock Mom goes to the refrigerator in search of dinner. I’m thinking that a last meal ought to be elegant, but we settle for hamburgers. I’m not up to making spaghetti sauce. I haven’t the patience, yet I know this is all about waiting. I throw a quick coleslaw together while Mom panfries the burgers, the two of us working in silence.

  Fifteen minutes later we carry our dinners to lawn chairs set in the shade of the trees at the western edge of the property. Before I take my first bite, I stare into a woodlot that covers an acre of ground. I mark the narrow trails created by the feet of Charlie and the kids next door—and probably children running back through the generations. When Charlie was younger, two or thre
e, I’d hold her hand and watch her head swivel, her eyes afraid and awed as I guided her along the shadowed trails. I think she was five before she first ventured into those shadows alone. I watched her from the yard, watched her take a step, then a few more, then run back and throw her arms around my legs.

  At dusk, I go back into the house and Mom drives away, the shotgun on the seat beside her. She’s not going far. Only around the block, to a driveway forty yards from where I stand. The home on the property is vacant and for rent. Mom’s there to keep watch. I’ve set my phone to vibrate and have it in the front pocket of the loose-fitting jeans I’m wearing. If Augie shows up, Mom will call and I’ll be waiting.

  Settled in, I unlock the window next to my bed as the evening slides from dusk to dark. One benefit of a single-story house is convenient access to the outside in case of fire. No jumping from a second-story window. Our plan, if you can call it that, is simple. If Mom calls, I’ll exit through the window and circle the house. Mom will approach from the neighbor’s driveway, bearing the shotgun. Between the two of us, we should have enough firepower to handle whatever’s coming our way. Add the element of surprise and . . .

  Seconds like minutes, minutes like hours, the night gradually passes, until I’m fighting sleep at four in the morning. Until enough time has slipped by to leave me hopeful. Maybe Connor’s smart enough to hold off, not compound his problems. Maybe Augie’s already been here. Here and gone when he found no car in my driveway. My nerves aren’t just on edge, they’re inflamed. I need to pee. I need to get up and pace. I need resolution, the waiting unbearable. I force myself to stay where I am, on a chair beside my bed. My phone has already gone off twice, robocalls from 800 numbers. But it took minutes before my heart quieted down. I’ll have to deal with that if Augie shows, the adrenaline surge. I can’t afford to hesitate, to rush in or freeze in fear.