Parallax

by Jon F. Merz

  "Yeah."

  Frank smiled. "Ain't this just a barrel of fun?"

  "The hell it is."

  He looked at her once more and then nodded. "Get ready."

  Another bullet slammed into the Explorer's hood. Frank ducked back then leaned around the truck. He fired once. "Go!"

  He felt Gia push off from him as he continued to squeeze off bullets in slow succession.

  Cover fire.

  Keep the bastard pinned down.

  In his peripheral vision he saw Gia reach the car. She must have had the keys ready. Smart. She had the door open in a second and disappeared inside. He heard the engine turn over.

  Frank's turn.

  Another round bounced off the hood.

  Frank fired again at the rooftop.

  He ejected the magazine and slapped another home. He shot twice more, waited, and then heard the round come at him. He shot again and this time ran for it.

  Moe had always told him not to shoot on the move because the shots usually never found their mark. The goal was to fire, move, fire, move.

  But sometimes the things Moe had taught him went to shit.

  Right now was one of those times.

  As he moved toward his Oldsmobile, he kept the gun trained on the rooftop. He saw the body again.

  Definitely Bobby.

  He fired again.

  Bobby ducked back under cover.

  Frank ran for the car and slid into the seat. "Go!"

  Gia stomped the gas pedal and they shot out of the parking space, fishtailing on the icy street before the heavy car righted itself and evened out.

  The back windshield exploded.

  Gia screamed. "He's still shooting!"

  "Keep your damned head down," said Frank. "He won't have a good angle on us, but I don't want to chance it."

  "He came pretty close with that last one."

  "Only shot he'd be able to place." He looked ahead of them. "Turn right here. He won't be able to shoot anymore."

  Gia steered the car to the right and they bled into Commercial Street. "Where am I going?"

  Frank sighed. There were a lot of things about his life he liked keeping secret. But he didn't really have a choice now. As soon as Bobby got back to the club, he'd tell Patrisi. And then Frank would have a whole new bag of steaming crap to worry about.

  He needed supplies.

  Moe's was the only answer.

  Moe was long in the grave, but he'd willed his warehouse to Frank. And Frank had kept it but hardly ever used it. He'd once figured it would come in handy if he ever needed a crash place that no one knew about.

  He glanced at Gia. He didn't want her to know about it, either.

  But what choice did he have? The streets would be crawling with both cops and Patrisi's thugs in a few short minutes. And with traffic just beginning to snarl in the late afternoon rush hour, there wasn't much choice.

  "Head for the waterfront."

  "The waterfront? You got a boat down there or something?"

  Frank looked at her. "Gia. Do me a favor and don't say anything for a while, okay? I've got a bunch of stuff to sort through and you're not helping."

  "Sorry."

  "Just head for Congress Street. I'll tell you where to go once we get there." He leaned back and pressed his spine into the car seat.

  For the first time he became aware of his heartbeat thundering in his chest. He took a few deep breaths and willed it to slow.

  He wondered whether it was because of the gun battle he'd just had.

  Or if it was because of Gia.

  Neither thought comforted him much.

  Chapter Nine

  Stahl spent the rest of the day getting reacquainted with Boston.

  The years that had passed since his last visit had marked their passage with huge construction projects, still incomplete after all this time. He strolled through the Boston Public Garden. He walked across the Common, huddling deep into his overcoat as the early evening Winter winds tore through his layers and drove precious body heat away.

  He imagined that most visitors to Boston saw things in a similar way. They toured the old red brick buildings, some dating back to Colonial times. They rode sleek elevators up to dizzying heights in the steel and mirror-faade skyscrapers. They walked the cobblestoned Freedom Trial and wandered through the Emerald Necklace, a series of parks that interlaced the city.

  And they all thought the same thing: beautiful.

  Stahl saw the city in different terms.

  Where they saw a classic urban landscape, Stahl saw targets of opportunity. His eyes roved over everything, mentally ticking off lists in his head as he moved. Changes in his environment registered instantly.

  Police officer.

  9mm Glock.

  Right hip.

  Cruiser one hundred meters away.

  Everyone approaching him underwent a quick scan while Stahl determined if they posed any degree of threat. It was how he'd been taught. It was how he'd lived for so long.

  And stayed alive.

  He stopped and leaned against the side of the skating rink the city opened every year after Thanksgiving. Skaters danced around the ice, showers of shaven crystals sprinkled the air.

  Alois liked to skate.

  Stahl remembered the first time he'd taken his son out onto the frozen pond that stood behind the rented villa in the Italian Alps. He could still see it clearly: the frosty morning air, icicles dripping off of the leafless trees, and the steam of breath as he and Alois sat on a log and put their skates on.

  Alois' smile had overflowed with happiness bordering on hysteria at the thought of finally learning how to make his own way around the ice. The season before, they'd watched the Winter Olympics on television. The skaters had fascinated Alois.

  His first few steps were rickety as his ankles adjusted to the increased strain. He kept looking down which made him wobble. Stahl had to skate ten feet away, turn, and then urge his son to focus on him as he pushed off once-twice-three times and coasted into Stahl's arms.

  Stahl could feel his son's heartbeat thundering through the coat he wore and smiled as the memory flashed through his head again.

  A young boy crashed into the boards in front of Stahl, laughing and then pushed off again to rejoin his friends.

  Stahl smiled.

  And felt the ache in his chest.

  He moved on.

  At Park Street Station, he used the last payphone in the bank to place an international telephone call to a number in Florence, which was then automatically routed, to a number in Singapore that then bounced to roughly two dozen places across the globe before finally being picked up by a gruff male voice that grunted once.

  "Persimmon," said Stahl looking around the area. Workers streamed past him intent on returning to the safety of their homes.

  The gruff voice vanished the old man's voice came on. "Hello, Ernst."

  "Hi."

  "Everything going well?"

  "Well as can be at this stage."

  "Why are you calling in?"

  "I need the contact name."

  "Where are you staying?"

  Stahl frowned. He didn't like anyone knowing about his accommodations. He'd been on a job or two in the past that had gone sour because of an informant who knew where he was staying. He thought fast and came up with a mail drop service he knew close-by. Stahl would go there and open an account as soon as the call finished.

  He gave the address to the old man.

  "Is there anything else, Ernst?"

  Stahl wanted to scream into the phone to get the operation started for Alois now. To go ahead and save his son. But he knew it would be fruitless to do so. The old bastard hadn't risen as high as he was being nice and compassionate.

  He was a cold-blooded killer.

  Stahl had to keep reminding himself that he was, too.

  He rang off and immediately walked down into Government Center. At Three Center Plaza, he pulled on the door of the mail drop facility
and requested a box. They placed several sheets of paper in front of him, which Stahl dutifully filled out in the pseudonym and background he'd chosen. He knew they never checked anyway. Not unless there was a problem.

  And Stahl wouldn't be a problem.

  Because once he had the contact information, he would simply vanish.

  He peeled off fifty dollars for two months worth of rental and told the clerk to go ahead and bill him for the rest of the year's fee.

  Outside he got bumped and jostled by more commuters hurrying to escape the crowded confines of their job, to breath again the fresh air they gave up for nine hours every day for retirement plans and a steady paycheck.

  To them, Stahl may as well have been a ghost.

  He'd noticed that mankind seemed intent in the new millennium on interacting as little as possible with other humans. On trains and subways across the world he'd seen people do whatever it took to avoid eye contact, to avoid conversation.

  We might live in the information age, he thought, but no one's sharing that information face-to-face anymore.

  Another wind ripped through the walkway, smacking him in the face. It was too damned cold, he decided, to walk anymore. Already his bladder was urgently requesting he empty it.

  Stahl stepped off the sidewalk into a cab. A hot blast of heat enveloped him as he slid into the seat.

  "Where to?"

  Stahl recognized the accent. Eastern European. Possibly the Balkans? He decided on Bulgaria.

  "Copley Square."

  Stahl could walk from there, bladder be damned.

  The cab threaded its way up and over Beacon Hill behind the State House where the seat of Massachusetts's politics lay. Stahl looked up at the gold domed top and remembered hearing before about how they'd painted it over with a dull paint during World War II in case enemy bombers flew overhead.

  Nowadays, he decided, there wasn't much that could be done with a little paint that would protect anyone. Or anything.

  He sighed again, closing his eyes and recognizing his body's desire to sleep. It had already been a long day. And as much as Stahl hated to admit it, he wasn't getting any younger.

  He'd been out of the cold for years. Retired. It would take him some time before he felt fully operational again. The adrenaline spikes so common when he had worked before had left him feeling uneasy this afternoon.

  Then there was the question of the headaches he seemed to be getting.

  Granted, he hadn't felt any since the cab ride earlier, but he was worried nonetheless. Brain cancer? Wasn't that preceded by intense headaches? He tried to recall the ailments brought on by headaches, found he didn't want to go through such a list right then, and contented himself by earmarking the headache problem for future speculation.

  The cab stopped abruptly.

  Stahl opened his eyes. "Why did we stop?"

  The driver got out of his cab and yanked the back door open. Stahl saw the gun barrel coming in through the darkness.

  "Get out!"

  In the close confines of the back seat, Stahl could do little but get out of the cab. As he did, he saw they were down a side street on Beacon Hill. A small cul de sac. Only a few lights from the surrounding buildings were on. Not enough people were at home to be bothered by a gunshot or two.

  But Stahl didn't want to have to shoot the cabby.

  "What is this about?"

  Spittle flew at him in the evening air. "Give me your money!"

  "I don't have anything beyond what I thought the ride would cost," said Stahl slowly. His eyes traveled over the gun. A snub-nosed revolver. Hammer down. Small caliber. It wouldn't make much noise, but then again, it only took one bullet to kill.

  The driver's eyes bulged with adrenaline. Stahl knew the feeling. He'd been there once before. A long time ago it seemed.

  He figured the trigger pull would be around six pounds of pressure before it would cock back and fall against the primer, igniting it and sending a round into Stahl.

  Six pounds can feel like a lot more, he thought.

  "Your money, now!"

  Stahl tried to smile. "Just a second, okay? I'll give it to you. I've got it here in my pocket, is that okay?"

  "Do it!"

  Stahl felt his pockets and then started to dig his right hand into the right side of his overcoat. As he did so, he turned and whipped the left edge of his coat up and at the man.

  The reaction was textbook. The man jerked back, the gun lifting several inches and offline now with Stahl's body.

  Stahl moved fast, smacking the revolver out of the man's hand and continuing to press the attack.

  The driver stumbled and fell to the sludgy ground, scampering back on his heels and hands trying to gain some distance.

  He sees my eyes, thought Stahl.

  He knows.

  Stahl stopped.

  He smiled again.

  "Relax friend."

  The driver stopped moving.

  Stahl kept smiling. "I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to get to Copley Square. Is that so bad?"

  The driver's eyes bulged a little more. He didn't move.

  Stahl walked back and picked up the man's gun. He opened to cylinder and ejected the bullets into his pocket, then snapped it shut and wiped it down before using a flap of his coat to hand it back to the driver.

  "Here. Take this. No bullets, though, I don't want a repeat performance tonight, okay? You find someone else to pull this crap on, okay?"

  The gun disappeared and the driver slowly got to his feet. Stahl nodded.

  "That's it. No problems, okay? Just a bad judgment call on your part."

  The driver nodded. "Yeah. Okay, Mister."

  "Do me a favor, though, will you?"

  "Sure."

  "Don't tell anybody about our little encounter here, okay? I don't need anyone knowing about me right now."

  "I won't say a word."

  Stahl nodded. "See? I knew this wouldn't be a big drama. You're from Bulgaria, aren't you?"

  "Y-yes. How did you know?"

  "I visited it once," said Stahl. He turned back toward the cab. "We should get going. You don't want to miss another opportunity, do you?"

  "No."

  Stahl smiled. "I thought not."

  He opened the driver's door. "Get in."

  The driver walked in front of Stahl.

  Stahl grabbed the man's head with both hands and jerked it to the side so fast, as he died, the cabby turned slightly and Stahl could still see the shocked expression on his face, permanently frozen in death's embrace.

  Stahl slid him into the driver's seat again and then closed the door.

  Time was scarce now.

  He wiped down the back seat and door handles, sanitizing it as much as possible. He didn't need any of the local police lifting his prints and running them through the FBI or Interpol database.

  That would bring the kind of attention Stahl most definitely did not want.

  Finished, he closed the door quietly and walked away.

  He still had to piss.

  Chapter Ten

  "It's a helluva view, Frank."

  He turned from the stove and saw Gia standing in front of the giant windows that ran from the floor to the ceiling. Outside Boston's financial district sparkled in the winter night, stretched before them against a giant canvas of ebony.

  He watched her. The way her waist tucked in and then gracefully curved out to her hips, the roundness of her shoulders, the mane of hair that tumbled down, all of it captivated him as much now as it had when he'd first lain eyes on her at Patrisi's club.

  She turned and caught him staring. "What?"

  Frank turned back to the wok and gave the chicken another toss with the spatula. "Nothing."

  She walked over and leaned against the counter. "You sure no one knows about this place?"

  "Well, now you do."

  "I meant any one in the family."

  "No."

  "How can you be so sure?"

  "Beca
use I was the only person that Moe ever told about this place. I was the only person he ever took in to train here. It was me alone. That's it. And when he passed on, he left the place to me." He added some cornstarch to thicken the sauce. "I don't know, maybe I should have sold it. Cripes, I could make millions from this place."

  "So, why don't you?"

  He glanced at her. "Respect?" He shrugged. "Moe taught me everything he knew about the business. He poured his life and his soul into me. In some ways, he felt more like my father than my teacher."

  Gia peered at the wok's contents. "And you were the prodigal son, is that it?"

  "Doubtful. I just tried to make him proud."

  "About your work."

  He stopped stirring. "Look, I know the whole aspect has never sat right with you. But it's what I do."

  "You could do something else."

  "Like what? I'm not exactly the most intelligent guy on the planet."

  "So what? You've got drive and discipline. That'll get you further than intelligence ever would."

  Frank shook his head. "Trying to do something new would be like trying to change the way I breathe."

  "Isn't that a bit melodramatic?"

  "I don't think it is. Haven't you ever felt that something fit you so well that you just knew you could never ever change it, never alter your life because doing so would be a grave mistake?"

  Gia looked away. "I felt that way once."

  "When?"

  "A long time ago."

  "Before me?"

  She looked at him. "Does it matter?"

  "Probably not."

  She sighed and pointed at the stove. "Is that almost done? I'm starving."

  Frank nodded. "Lemme add the red peppers and it'll be all through."

  "You add them last?"

  "I like Ôem crunchy. I hate soggy vegetables. By the way the broccoli was a favor to you. I hate the stuff."

  "It fights cancer."

  "So does everything else."

  "No. Everything else causes cancer."

  "Right." He moved the wok and poured the contents into a big yellow bowl and then brought it over to the dining room table by the window. "Here we go."

  Gia smiled. "You never cooked for me before."

  "Yeah. I know."

  "Is it a new skill?"

  "Maybe I needed something to do with my life after you and I broke up."