by Brian Drake
The rider flashed by, firing a pistol into the space Wolf’s car had occupied, but striking asphalt. The rider sped up, the bike weaving a bit. The light ahead turned red, but he didn’t slow. Wolf hopped out of his car and fired once.
The rider fell over his handlebars, the bike swerved, struck and sparked against the pavement. The rider’s body rolled curbside while the bike slid into the intersection. A trio of oncoming cars screeched to a stop.
Wolf jumped back into his car, executed a U-turn, and drove the other way.
Gordy answered on the first ring. Wolf said: “Where are you?”
“The restaurant.”
“Where’s Mike?”
“At the house.”
“Are you sure?”
“What’s happening, Wolf?”
Wolf filled him in and heard Gordy suck in a breath at the mention of Monica’s name. Wolf said: “What haven’t you told me?”
Gordy waited a moment; then said: “She thinks I’m her father. I never believed it and her mother could never prove it and Monica probably thinks I killed her mother.”
“You should have told me before tonight, Gordy.”
“I said probably. How could I know that note was from her?”
“Make sure Mike is where you think he is,” Wolf said, “because I’m on my way to the house.”
“Was she the only one you saw?”
“Her sister wasn’t there, Gordy.”
“Wait, what--”
Wolf hung up.
The gate guard let Wolf pass and he drove up the curving driveway to the front of the house. The porch light made it impossible to see any of the surrounding acreage; darkness covered the grass, trees, the far stone wall. Wolf shook his head as he exited the car. Not a guard in sight. The front door opened as he reached it. The house guard, a stocky man shorter than Wolf, said: “Just you?”
“Yes. Gordy on his way?”
“Should be.”
“Where’s the kid?”
The circular front room of the house had black-and-white checkerboard tiles from which a trio of hallways and a staircase branched. The guard hustled up the stairs with a slight rocking motion and the pistol on his hip rattled. Wolf followed. They reached the second floor and followed a hallway to the last room on the right. The house guard put a hairy hand on the doorknob. They could hear a television on the other side of the door. The house guard turned the knob shoved his bulk inside.
Empty. The television, facing a double bed, played to no one. The room’s chill came from the fully open window from which a screen had been removed; Wolf left the gaping guard in the doorway and looked out the window. A rope had been fixed to one of the bedposts and led down to the ground.
“How many guys on duty tonight?” Wolf said.
“Three. Usual crew.”
“Well Mike must have skipped between patrols.”
“Mister O’Rourke isn’t going to like this.”
Wolf said: “No kidding?”
Gordy paced his office. “Guys have been out looking for two hours and nothing.”
Wolf sat on the couch, legs crossed, scotch in hand. “Try his cell again.”
Gordy pulled out his own cell and dialed, waited, flipped the phone closed. “Voicemail.”
Wolf sipped his drink.
Gordy dropped into the chair behind his desk. The flesh of his face seemed to sag further than the rest of his body. “I don’t want to lose Mike the way I lost Bobby,” he said.
Wolf blinked.
Gordy said: “I’m sorry, Wolf. I didn’t mean that for you.”
Wolf nodded.
“I’m sorry. I don’t want you--”
“Forget it.”
Gordy’s cell rang. He snatched it up. “Mike?” Gordy listened a moment and his jaw slacked. “Don’t hurt him. I’ll do whatever you want. I didn’t kill her!” He paused, then started scribbling on paper, then said: “On my way.” He flipped his phone closed and met Wolf’s gaze.
“Well?” Wolf said.
Gordy dropped his eyes. His body shook. “Will you drive?”
Wolf pulled up in front of the address. His dash clock glowed 3:05 a.m.
“I want this over with,” Gordy said.
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
Gordy took a deep breath.
Wolf gave the house a look as he pulled out the ignition key. Wooden fence, one story, big yard. Neighboring houses spaced far enough apart that it wasn’t a home built within the last twenty years. He and Gordy exited the Cadillac, walked up the stone pathway to the oak double doors. Gordy kept his black briefcase close to his leg.
Wolf had come ready with his usual pistol but also packed a two-shot .32 Derringer in case things spun out of control.
Wolf pressed the doorbell. The fat man, with a grimace, let them in. Monica Frye, red hair tied back, sat in the living room on a leather couch. Her driver, a blond kid with chin fuzz, sat in a corner chair picking at his fingernails with clippers. He didn’t look up. He wore a shoulder holster and the pistol it contained dangled under his arm.
The fat man frisked Gordy first and removed a revolver; Wolf noted the fat man looked no further. Then he frisked Wolf and removed the .45. He didn’t check Wolf for a second weapon.
Gordy seemed not to notice the fat man. Gordy stood frozen, eyes on Monica. The fat man, with the guns, left the room.
Gordy said: “You.”
“I look a lot different now, don’t I?” Monica Frye said.
Gordy made a choking sound. “I did not kill your mother, I swear.”
“Yes, you did,” she said. “That I can prove.”
“Now wait,” Wolf said.
“Quiet, Wolf. I said you didn’t know the whole story, remember?” To Gordy: “I tracked down your old gang. They were more than kind enough to tell me you shot my mother. Before I killed them myself.”
“You--”
“I have written statements.”
Gordy flexed his hands; the blond kid with the shoulder holster made a tut-tut noise and took out his gun.
Wolf said: “Gordy--”
Where was the sister?
The fat man reentered, dragging Mike with him. Mike, gagged and tied at the wrists and ankles, made a noise when he saw his father. The fat man shoved the younger O’Rourke to the carpet, left him on his stomach. Mike rolled over. His nostrils flared as he breathed. The fat man planted a foot on the younger man’s chest and took out Gordy’s revolver.
“Now,” Monica Frye said, “either admit you killed my mother, or I shoot your boy right here. You could bury him next to Bobby, wouldn’t that be nice?”
“I swear I didn’t kill her!” Gordy said. “That’s the truth!”
“Your men told me the truth.”
“A man says anything when there’s a gun to his head.”
“Except you.” She eyed the fat man. The fat man cocked the revolver. She looked back to Gordy: “Well?”
Gordy, panting, let his arms fall at his side. Sweat trickled down his face. Wolf watched the fat man and moved his right hand to scratch his nose. The fat man jerked his head Wolf’s way. Wolf lowered his arm.
“All right,” Gordy said. “All right.”
The fat man looked at Monica. Monica said okay. The fat man placed his finger on the revolver’s hammer, put pressure on the trigger. The free hammer lowered under the guidance of his thumb and he took a step back.
Wolf’s right hand moved again, this time to his right pocket. The fat man turned his body Wolf’s way, bringing up the revolver, but Wolf already had his two-shot .32 Derringer aimed at the big man’s right eye. Wolf fired once. The bullet puckered the fat man’s eye and he remained on his feet a moment, then crashed on top of Mike. The younger O’Rourke’s body folded under the impact and he screamed through the gag.
The blond kid, on his feet, had to change positions as the falling fat man blocked his aim; Wolf, dropping to one knee, fired the second .32 slug up through the kid’s fuzzy chin.
> Gordy lunged at Monica—“Damn you, bitch!”—while drawing a knife from behind his back. She screamed as he landed on top of her, blocking her swinging arms and pushing her head into the cushions. The arm holding the knife pumped like a piston, once, twice; Gordy pulled back, and with one last thrust buried the knife in her neck.
Wolf rolled the fallen fat man off Mike’s body, hauled him to his feet. “Should have stayed home,” Wolf said. He didn’t remove the gag but instead hoisted Mike over his shoulders. He looked at Gordy. Gordy turned to him. Blood had splattered on part of his face and the front of his shirt.
“Let’s get out of here,” Gordy said.
Gordy moved paperwork to one side and poured two drinks and sat behind his desk. He gulped down his drink. Wolf, legs crossed, seated on the other side, did not reach for his drink. He said:
“This didn’t turn out exactly how I imagined.”
“Well it’s done. I’m glad you were there.”
Wolf said: “She was right about one thing.”
Gordy frowned.
“She told me,” Wolf said, “about a side to you I wouldn’t like.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Did you tell me the truth?”
Gordy gave his friend a wide-eyed look. “What did you say to me?”
“You heard me. I’m not going to ask you again. You started to tell a story back there.”
“You know a man will say anything when there’s a gun pointed at him. Or at his kid.”
“Nobody innocent goes off like you did.”
“She was threatening my boy.”
“She was unarmed. I dropped the fat man and the kid. It was over.”
“You think we should have just let her go?”
“Your friends didn’t exactly warn you somebody was after them,” Wolf said. “She didn’t take them all by surprise.”
“You gonna sit there and insult me?”
“Are you going to tell me the truth?”
Gordy sucked in his breath.
Wolf stood up and started for the door.
“Wolf.”
Wolf looked back.
“You believe me, don’t you?”
Wolf said: “I’m not a fool. Don’t play me for one. And by the way? Where was the sister?” He went out.
Gordy clutched his glass and stared at the closed door.
Gordy wandered the club. Every seat was full. The bar packed. But his mind wasn’t on business. Did Wolf really think he had murdered Mona Frye? He hadn’t. But he knew who did, and that was a secret that had to stay a secret. He had to keep the secret.
He went back to his office. Paperwork still waited on the desk. There was no flash or glamour in being a connected guy. You still had a stack of paperwork to sort through just like the rest of the schmucks. Every night.
But there was a new piece of paper on the desk. Folded. Left in the center of his blotter.
It hadn’t been there when he stepped out.
With his hands shaking, Gordy picked up the paper and unfolded it. Somebody had written three words. His heart skipped.
Three words.
Remember Mona Frye.
Ava Frye didn’t bother to adjust her skirt. It was too short on purpose. The night was warm so at least her legs weren’t cold. She approached the entrance of the bar. A sign on the door said Pull the Door Don’t Push Dumbasses.
She pulled the door open. The Gator Cage, the main hangout for party-loving chumps like Mike O’Rourke. She knew his face well. She’d argued with her sister Monica about how to go about their vendetta, but her older sister had insisted on doing it her way, and now she was in the morgue. Ava should have been at the house, but her fiery temper got the best of her and she’d walked out. Now she had two people to avenge.
What had supposed to have been a simple job was now more complicated. Gordy O’Rourke and his friend Wolf would pay dearly.
She didn’t figure Mike as the type to refuse the fancy yellow pills in her purse; the pick-up would be easy too. She knew a lot of guys like Mike. Always looking for the next new high.
It felt good to be out and operating instead of sitting behind the scenes. It felt even better to be out alone. She was the proverbial square peg in a round hole when working with her associates. Her sister had truly run the show; now everybody was looking to her, and not just for their pay.
The Gator Cage wasn’t large. It appeared to be an add-on to the attached next-door establishment. The bar took up most of the room with a narrow walkway remaining. Tables lined the wall; the path led to a pool table and karaoke stand in the rear. A sign in front of the karaoke stand said Karaoke Only on Tuesdays Dumbasses.
Somebody had a very limited sense of humor. And poor grammar skills.
Men with horny eyes tracked her as she walked the length of the bar with her shoulders back and her chest out; a few women stared daggers at her. They couldn’t compete in their jeans and belly bulges and bad hair and oily skin. All you bitches can suck it. Ava saw Mike O’Rourke sitting at the end, drinking a beer, munching pretzels and looking up at a corner TV screen displaying a game show.
She pulled back the neighboring stool. The wooden legs scraped the floor. She brushed off the seat and sat. The bartender came over. Another woman who glared at her.
Ava said: “Dry martini.”
The bartender retreated to mix the drink. Ava placed her purse on the counter and took out a pack of cigarettes. She put the cigarette in her mouth and rummaged for a lighter.
Mike O’Rourke flicked a Zippo and held the lighter out for her. Typical. Already tangled in her web. She smiled and lit the tip with the flame.
“Hi,” he said. “Never seen you before.”
“Just moved here.”
The bartender returned with Ava’s martini, but the level of liquid barely reached the middle of the glass.
“That’s it?” Ava said. “I came here to drink.”
“That’s an ounce and a half, how we serve ‘em.”
“I’m not paying ten bucks for a couple of drops.”
Mike O’Rourke jumped in. “Haley, make it a double and put it on my tab.”
The bartender huffed and removed the glass; when she brought it back Ava smiled at what she considered the proper amount of elixir.
“Thank you.” She raised the glass to Mike. “You’re a lifesaver.” She took a swallow, nodded, set the glass on the bar.
“Where did you come from?” he said.
“Las Vegas,” she said. “I had to escape the flash and plastic and see real life, you know?”
“I’m not sure you’ll like it much better here.”
“So far it’s okay. I like mountains.”
Mike shrugged and drank some beer.
“Besides,” Ava said, “I think you know a thing or two about partying. Where’s a girl go to get wild?”
“I can think of a few places.”
“Good. Let me fuel up first.”
Ava opened her purse and took out a baggie of pills. Harmless capsules filled with sugar. She popped two in her mouth and chased them with the martini.
“Got any for me?” Mike said.
“If you’re good. Let’s go.”
“Don’t you want to know my name?”
“We put names on tombstones, honey.” She hopped off the barstool and grabbed his arm.
He took her back to his place after a round of clubs.
Mike O’Rourke put the wrong key in the lock, laughed, tried again. Ava laughed with him, but she wasn’t high. The pills she’d slipped him had Mike on the kind of high a hard-core druggie loves. He finally found the right key, pushed the door open, and they went inside.
He didn’t bother with the lights. Mike grabbed her by her slender waist, spun her in a circle--“Weeeeeee”--and kicked the door shut. He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her ahead of him, down a dark hallway to his bedroom. She moved with a slight swish in her hips.
He steered her into the bedroom. A c
orner night light gave the room a glow.
She placed her purse on the dresser and jumped on the bed and rolled around. Hopped back to her feet. “Bed’s soft. You first.”
He was already taking off his pants, watching her watching him.
She smiled at his growing erection.
“I think I can handle that,” she said. She pulled her T-shirt off, her breasts bouncing within the cups of her black bra. She reached back, unhooked the bra and let her breasts fall free. She tossed the bra to the floor.
She reached for the snap of her skirt and gave it a pull. Moved slender fingers to the zipper and started moving it down.
She pulled the zipper down the rest of the way and started moving her hips as she pulled the skirt down. A pair of pink panties remained.
She flicked off her panties and tossed them at Mike. He caught them in his teeth, laughed, and tossed them aside. She lifted her arms and did a turn.
“You like?”
“Me like,” he said.
“Just one more thing, lover,” she said. She got off the bed and reached into her purse and took out a silenced automatic.
Mike O’Rourke was suddenly very sober.
“Whoa, hey--”
“So long, babe.” She shot him twice in the chest.
Wolf drank some beer. He put the bottle on the table beside his recliner and went back to his book. The only sound in the apartment was the clanking refrigerator. He sat under a small light the recliner set halfway back. He hadn’t left the apartment in two days and was glad for the rest. He was still processing what had happened with Gordy and the solitude helped.
A knock at the door. Two light taps. Wolf didn’t leave the chair. Another knock. Fine. Wolf dog-eared the page and answered the door.
Gordy stood there.
“Wolf. Please.”
Wolf stepped back and Gordy entered. The other man was visibly shaking.
“What happened, Gordy?”