Carlucci

by Richard Paul Russo

  Tanner looked back at Max. He had to keep his eyes partly closed against the glare. “Why are you doing this?” he asked. He tried to keep his voice calm and even.

  “Questions,” Max said. “And then I may kill you.”

  “Did you talk to Rattan? He’ll want to talk to me, Max, he’ll want to hear this.”

  Max nodded slowly. “I imagine he would.”

  “Did you talk to him, for Christ’s sake?”

  Max snorted. “If I ever do talk to him again, one of us will be dead by the end of the conversation.”

  Jesus Christ, Tanner thought, have I ever fucked up.

  Max cocked his head. “You really didn’t know, did you?”

  Tanner shook his head. “I still don’t.”

  Max grinned. “We had a parting of the ways. A difference of opinion. A contretemps.” He paused, leaning forward. “I tried to kill the motherfucker, and I missed, and he knows.” Max leaned back. “Now, what I want to know is what you, and the cops, and Rattan have going.”

  “Christ, Max. I told you I wasn’t a cop anymore. You said you knew.”

  “And I still know, but that doesn’t mean shit. You and Rattan and the cops are running something, and I want to know what it is.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Max, believe me.” He didn’t, but he began to wonder about it. “What I need to talk to Rattan about, it’s old business. It’s personal, it’s got nothing to do with cops.”

  Max slowly shook his head. “You don’t get it, do you, Tanner?” Max leaned forward again. “I will kill you. I got no problem with that.”

  Tanner breathed in deeply, and slowly let it out. “I get it, Max. But I don’t know a thing about it. Christ, Rattan killed two cops, they aren’t going to have anything to do with him.”

  Max erupted from the chair and lunged forward, but stopped with his face just a few inches from Tanner’s. “I don’t want to hear that kind of shit, motherfucker!” He straightened and turned to Red Giant. “Bring her in.”

  Red Giant left the room. Christ, now what? Tanner thought. He was having trouble breathing again, and it wasn’t because of the ropes. He wished he did have something to tell Max. “Not a good person,” Sookie had said. No shit. How the hell was he going to convince Max he didn’t know anything?

  Max paced the room, not talking. Tanner wanted to say something, try to get Max to understand, but he could not think of a thing to say that wasn’t just as likely to make things worse. Try telling him about the Chain Killer, Rattan’s three-year-old message? Shit. He closed his eyes and waited.

  The door opened and closed. Tanner opened his eyes and turned to see Red Giant leading a woman across the room. Tanner did not know who she was. She was gagged, her hands bound behind her back. Strands of her blond hair were plastered to the sweat on her face. She looked strong, but she hung limply in Red Giant’s grip, and her eyes were dead with despair. She had given up, and seeing Tanner did not, apparently, give her renewed hope.

  Red Giant pushed her into the chair Max had been using and tied her to it. Max turned his gaze to Tanner.

  “She’s looking for Rattan, too,” Max said. “And not for the killings. She’s a cop, the two of you are both looking for Rattan, and you tell me there’s nothing going on.”

  There probably was something going on. Tanner thought, but he had no idea what it was.

  “For Christ’s sake,” Tanner said, “I don’t even know her.”

  Max went crazy again, stomping across the floor, shoving his face into Tanner’s. “What is this shit from you?” He dug a wad of paper from his back pocket. “And what is this?” He unwadded the paper and held it in front of Tanner’s face. It was the note Lucy Chen had given him with Francie Miller’s name and address. “You don’t fucking know her?”

  Jesus, this was Francie Miller? Man, they were both in deep, deep shit. He looked at the woman, who gazed emptily back at him. “No,” Tanner said. “I don’t know her. I’ve never seen her before. It was just a name someone gave me, said she could help out if I got into trouble.”

  Max slowly shook his head, crumpling the paper and dropping it to the floor. “Well, Tanner, you’re in trouble, but I don’t think she’s going to be much help.” He backed away and looked at Red Giant. “Hand it.”

  Red Giant withdrew a knife from a sheath strapped to his belt and handed it to Max. Max took the knife, approached Francie Miller, and put the tip of the blade against her throat. She blinked once, and her eyes widened, coming back to life. But with fear. Max looked back at Tanner. “I am not fucking around here, Tanner. And I want some answers.”

  Before Tanner could say a thing, Max jammed the knife deep into Francie Miller’s throat. Blood gushed, Francie lurched violently backward as Max let go and retreated, leaving the knife in her throat. She hit the ground, her legs kicked, her body jerked spasmodically for several moments, and Tanner could see the blood running and spattering across the floor, the knife flipping free.

  Jesus.

  He was a dead man.

  He didn’t have much time. A minute, maybe two. He opened up and shut down, letting pictures and thoughts click through his mind. Knife on the floor. No. Legs and feet. Blood. The window. How high above the street? Didn’t matter. Max standing over the woman, watching the final spasms. Lower legs free enough? Only a foot from the window, it was low, wouldn’t take much. Try not to land headfirst on the street. Now or die, man. Go.

  Tanner leaned forward, lifting the chair from the floor. He dropped slightly, then lunged sideways at the window, closing his eyes. Glass shattered, hip hit the sill, he fell outward, through the glass, glass slicing skin, then out the window. He hit metal immediately, twisted, bumped, started down, then jolted to a stop. He opened his eyes.

  Tanner was three floors above the street, upside down. A leg of the chair was caught in the tangled remnants of a fire escape. He glanced at the shattered window just a few feet above him, waiting to see Max’s face. Jesus.

  He shook himself, rocked and jolted, side to side, up and down. Harder. The chair leg cracked, then finally broke, and he dropped.

  Tanner tried to twist himself as he fell, legs kicking. He hit the street hard on his side, a wall of pain jolting through him. A burst of silver glitter, then he couldn’t see anything at all for a few moments. The darkness cleared away, and he saw people standing over him. He wanted to pass out, but he was afraid to. If he passed out now, he would probably die; Max would find him and he would die. He didn’t know if he could even free himself from the rope and chair. The pain was a pounding vibration jamming through him, like bone boomers strapped all over his body. He wanted Rachel’s Dilaudid.

  Then Sookie’s face appeared above him, and she dropped to her knees. There was a man with her, a gaunt spikehead with clear, bright wide eyes. The spikes of twisted skin seemed to move across his forehead.

  “I told you to stay away from him,” Sookie said.

  Tanner tried to speak, but couldn’t get anything out.

  “We’ve got to get him the hell out of here now,” the spikehead said.

  “We’ll take care of you,” Sookie told him. “Don’t worry.”

  For some reason Tanner found her voice completely reassuring. When he felt their hands on him, he closed his eyes and let himself slip away.

  20

  SOOKIE LOOKED UP, saw Max’s face in the shattered window. Mirrorshades. Who knew what he was seeing?

  “Come on!” Mixer said.

  Sookie and Mixer grabbed Tanner’s arms and shoulders and lifted.

  “Don’t move him,” someone in the crowd said. “You know, in case of spinal—”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Mixer said. Then, to Sookie, “Let’s move it.”

  They half carried, half dragged Tanner, pieces of rope and broken chair still hanging from him. Sookie watched his face, his closed eyes. It had to hurt.

  They pushed through the crowd, around a corner. Mixer let go, and Sookie fell with all the weight. Mi
xer jumped a pedal cart going by, jamming it to a stop, almost knocking the driver off.

  Sookie was back on her feet by the time Mixer got the cart backed up, and they loaded Tanner into the storage well. Sookie stayed with him while Mixer hung on behind the driver. “Go!” he yelled.

  The driver swore and pumped, and the cart moved slowly forward. Too slow, Sookie thought, looking back. She didn’t see Max or Uwe, but she was sure they were coming. Anyone else following? Hard to tell.

  The cart picked up speed. Mixer yelled in the driver’s ear, and the driver whacked Mixer on the side of the head. The driver was a stocky woman with short hair and a necklace tattooed around her neck. She kept calling Mixer names, and he kept shouting directions at her. Sookie couldn’t keep up with it all, but it seemed that the driver was following Mixer’s instructions, zigzagging from one street to another.

  They turned a corner, and Mixer had the driver stop. Mixer and Sookie pulled Tanner off the cart, dragging him against the wall. Mixer glared at the driver and pointed down the street. “Keep going, bitch!”

  The woman nodded. “You owe me for this, you goddamn spikehead. I know your face.” She pushed off, gaining speed more quickly now.

  Mixer unlocked a metal door, pushed it open, and they dragged Tanner through. Mixer jammed the door shut, cutting off all light.

  “All right,” Mixer said. “We’re safe for now. No way they’ll find us here.”

  “Where we going to take him?” Sookie asked. She couldn’t see Mixer in the dark, but she could smell him—something like sweat and sawdust. Tanner smelled like pain. She held on to one of his hands. “It’s a good thing we followed him,” she said.

  “I know a place.” Mixer laughed. “I know a lot of places.” He lit a cigarette, and the match light showed a small passage empty except for the three of them. Mixer blew out the match; his cigarette glowed. “Let me think a minute.” The glow moved back and forth in the darkness, as if he were shaking his head. “Every time you show up, Sookie, something like this happens.”

  “My life is too weird,” she said.

  Mixer laughed again. “Yeah, no shit. But wait’ll you grow up. It’s only going to get weirder.”

  “Great.” She sat on the floor beside Tanner and waited for Mixer to make a decision.

  21

  TANNER CAME TO in a narrow, windowless room. He lay on a cot, surrounded by concrete walls, a lamp at his head, a tiny fan whirring in the far corner. The door was closed, the air stifling despite the fan.

  He remembered waking several times, disoriented from dull pain and drugs. He remembered fluids trickled into his mouth; he remembered being walked down a hall to a toilet. Someone had been keeping him sedated. He didn’t know if that was good or bad.

  Tanner sat up slowly, a little woozy but otherwise feeling all right. He was wearing a pair of light cotton pants, but nothing else. His left wrist was heavily taped and in the dim light from the lamp he could see dark, yellowing bruises on his arms and chest, particularly on his left side; also a number of cuts that seemed to be healing. Overall, though, he did not appear to be too badly hurt. Everything except his wrist moved freely and without much pain.

  There was a plastic pitcher of water next to the lamp, and Tanner, looking at it, realized how thirsty he was; his mouth was dry, yet gummy. He drank deeply from the pitcher, and the water went to his head, almost like alcohol. He had to lean back against the wall to keep from losing his balance. He drank some more, then set down the pitcher.

  He rose to his feet, took the five steps to the door, and tried the handle. Locked. Had Max got hold of him? Tanner did not think so. He thought he remembered seeing Sookie during his brief conscious periods, and the spikehead who had been with her. Also some other guy, a thin unshaven man, gaunt face bent over him. Who the hell was that?

  Tanner looked around the tiny room. Nothing but the cot, the lamp, the water, the fan. No clothes. No money, no credit chip. And no way out. He banged on the door a few times, but got no response. He would have to just sit and wait. That was all right. Waiting was bearable, it was something he had learned to do—wait without going crazy. He could do it again.

  He spent some time pacing the room, then did some stretching, working through the pain in his muscles. He sat on the cot, breathing heavily. The pacing had tired him, but the muscle pain felt good. He sat with his back against the cool concrete wall, waiting and thinking. He thought a lot about Francie Miller. He tried not to, but the images kept returning—Max driving the knife into her throat; blood; Francie arching violently, chair driven back and over; Francie jerking spasmodically on the floor; blood again; the knife flipping free; Max’s shaded eyes.

  When no one appeared after an hour or so, Tanner lay out on the cot and slept.

  He dreamed of Freeman again: the hot, dark hallway; the fat man with the smell of tuna; the gun at Freeman’s face, the explosion of blood and flesh and bone. This time, though, as Tanner ran down the hall, before the second gunshot, he tripped over Francie Miller’s body. He tumbled to the floor, somehow twisting around so his face was looking into hers, staring at the knife still embedded in her throat. Her eyes stared back at him.

  Then he awakened.

  A junkie stood over him, staring into Tanner’s face. Tanner could see needle marks in the guy’s neck. A gaunt, unshaven face, glittering eyes. The face he had seen before.

  “I’m your doctor,” the junkie said. He grinned, retreating a couple of steps.

  Tanner lay without moving for a minute, watching the junkie, who continued to grin. Tanner slowly sat up, saw a medical kit on the floor beside the cot, and realized the junkie was serious.

  “I’m a hell of a doctor when I’m not strung out or just shot,” the junkie said. He shrugged. “I fixed you up, and you’re going to be fine.” Another shrug, then he put out his hand. “My name’s Leo.”

  Tanner did not shake Leo’s hand. “Why have you been sedating me?” he asked.

  Leo dropped his hand. “To keep you quiet. This room’s safe enough, but…” He shrugged again. “Didn’t want you crying out.”

  “Why would I cry out?”

  “Pain.” Still another shrug. “Nightmares.”

  Tanner did not respond. He didn’t remember any nightmares other than the one he’d just had, but then he didn’t really remember much of anything after hitting the street.

  “You have a small fracture in your left wrist,” Leo said. “It doesn’t need to be casted, just taped like that to keep down excess movement. Couple weeks should do it. Other than that, nothing serious. Bruises and abrasions, minor lacerations.”

  “I want my clothes,” Tanner said.

  “Mixer has them,” Leo said.

  “Get them.”

  “He’s not here.” Another shrug. The shrugging, Tanner thought, was like a facial tic with this guy. “He’ll be back soon, half hour, something.”

  Tanner nodded, more to himself than to the junkie. He stood. “I’ve got to piss.”

  Leo looked at the door, then back at Tanner, but didn’t say anything.

  “You holding me prisoner?” Tanner asked.

  “Of course not. It’s just…I think Mixer wants to talk to you.”

  “The spikehead?”

  Leo nodded.

  “I’m coming back. Where the hell am I going to go without clothes?”

  Leo laughed. “In this part of town, you could go far.” He shrugged once more, then gestured at the door. “Take a right, second door on the left.”

  Tanner crossed the room, opened the door, and stepped out into the corridor. Sputtering fluorescent lights, spaced irregularly along the ceiling, cast a shifting, fragmented illumination. The corridor stretched into darkness in both directions as the lights gave out. Tanner was fairly certain he was underground. He went right, following the junkie’s directions. The cement floor was warm under his bare feet, but the flickering lights hurt his eyes. Second door on the left. Tanner stopped, pulled open the door.

&n
bsp; A woman sat on the toilet inside the small bathroom, trousers bunched on the floor. She looked up at him, her expression even and unalarmed.

  “Sorry,” Tanner said. He backed out and closed the door. She had not seemed at all embarrassed. Tanner stood against the opposite wall and waited, listening to the sounds of the corridor. A nearly inaudible hum emanated from the walls, and now that he wasn’t moving he could feel a slight vibration in the floor. The hum and vibration ceased for a moment, then resumed. Tanner noticed now that there was graffiti on the walls—the lettering was tiny, and not inked but etched into the concrete with acid pens. ABOVE GROUND RADIO. LOVE IS NOTHING MORE THAN BIO-HYDRAULICS. BE RIGHT BACK—GODOT.

  The bathroom door opened and the woman came out. Her blouse was transparent, and Tanner found himself staring at her breasts—one was only half the size of the other, but they seemed—somehow, to match. A design job, he figured. He looked up at her face.

  The woman was staring at his crotch. Only fair, he decided. She stared at it, he thought, as if she could see through the pants. Then she tipped her head up to meet his gaze.

  “It’s not augmented, is it?” she asked.

  “No.”

  She shook her head slowly. “You’re missing out. And so is she, whoever she is.” Then she smiled, said, “Bye, Slick,” and headed down the hall. Soon she was no more than a shadow moving in and out of the sputtering lights, footsteps growing faint. Then she was beyond the lights and gone.

  Tanner opened the bathroom door and stepped inside. The room was brightly lit with silver-gray fluorescents, and was far cleaner than he had expected. The porcelain was white and almost shiny, the metal fixtures polished and bright. A large mirror above the sink reflected his image from the waist up. In the fluorescent light the bruises around his ribs looked worse, and he could see more of them now. A cut on his neck had opened, and a thread of dark red blood oozed slowly from it. His face didn’t look too bad, though he needed a shave. Three days, he guessed.