“Sure is,” the other replied. “If I could travel with that reverend, you could call me his sister, too!” They both laughed.
* * * *
Hours later, as the jet circled over the Bogota Airport, McCabe considered his new situation. He was free, he had Allison, and this place was full of mountains and rivers. What more could a Morgan County boy ask? So he couldn’t have a drink. So what? Sure wouldn’t have been much booze in Regional Jail neither.
He smiled grimly, then brightened. Of course, there was just the chance that he could cook up a little mash out there in that jungle. Grandpap had turned out some mean white lightening before he’d got religion. Yeah, there was always ways of working things out! Luck was sure as hell turning!
“What do you think of Columbia?” Allison asked as they peered out the plane window.
“Well, actually I been looking at them woods, ah, jungles, and thinking about hunting. First thing I gotta do is git out there and find out what they got that passes for squirrel,” McCabe answered thoughtfully. “Then I gotta show you how to fry one up and make some gravy. ’Cause, Honey, we ain’t gonna make it in Columbia or nowheres else on that cooking of yours!”
As McCabe stepped off the plane into the blazing sun, he thought his grandpap would be satisfied now—yeah, maybe even proud. His ‘hell-fire boy’ would be paying his debt to the Lord for years to come, looking after these here savages and dealing with a crazy woman!
Well, he’d sure as hell make the best of it. He already had a few plans.
ROSIE AND MAC
TUESDAY NIGHT, MAY 3rd: Mac McCabe released the handbrake and eased the white Porsche down the drive. The tires crunched lightly over the gravel. He glanced back at the A-frame, but no lights flashed on; no alarms sounded. Soon the cabin sank back into the shadow of the mountain. All was quiet. He guided the sports car down to the main road. As he switched on the headlights, the West Virginia Mountain Rentals sign flashed past. Yeah, people were more relaxed on vacation. They only expected to be ripped off down in the city. Mac revved the engine and headed toward Tanky’s place.
The Porsche purred under his touch. In less than 10 minutes, he turned off the Coolfont Road onto Route 9-West. Punching on the radio, Mac grunted with satisfaction as a new country release blasted from the speakers. “The man likes country music. Money didn’t make him into no snob,” Mac muttered as he pulled out a cigarette. Inhaling the first drag, he started beating on the leather upholstery with the flat of his right hand, keeping time with the twanging guitars.
He smiled. “Well, the owner’ll just haveta make a little more money and buy hisself another vehicle. Shitty luck for him, but damn good luck for me.”
Not a single hitch, he thought, and he was in for the lion’s share. After all his ass was on the line, wasn’t it?
Turning off Route 9, Mac headed down Peach tree Hollow Road. Tanky’s place was on a side road. You had to be looking for the turn to find it. Tanky was waiting for him. The same country song thumped out loudly in the garage. Mac drove the Porsche through the sagging double doors and jumped out. “Whadaya think, Tanky? Is this here a beauty or what?”
Tanky pushed the greasy cowboy hat back on his head and slowly circled the Porsche. “Ain’t bad. Ain’t bad at all.”
“Should bring a nice piece of change. I had my eye on a new pickup over in Winchester.”
“Now boy, don’t go getting no big ideas yet. You know the cost of doing business.” Tanky propped one hand-tooled boot up carefully on an oil drum. “You ain’t nowhere without connections in this business. And connections cost money.”
Mac studied the top of Tanky’s hat.
“This here’s the thing, Mac, You’ll do O.K. outta this. Maybe not no new pickup truck. I mean, there’s expenses.” The two eyed each other in silence. “How about a beer, boy?” Tanky walked toward the door leading to the house. “Naoma, hey Naoma, get us some beer.” He moved quickly for a man of his bulk. “What you say, Mac?”
“You done said it all, Tanky.” Mac started moving aimlessly around the shop, picking up a tool, examining it, putting it back down. Finally he came face to face with Tanky. A ballpeen hammer dangled loosely from his right hand. “So, Tanky, I was out there risking my ass tonight. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have no nice, shiny Porsche to ship down to the chop shop in D.C. You wouldn’t have nothing. So just how much do you figure my cut might be?”
“Now hold on, Mac, I just can’t do no figuring yet. I ain’t sure what we can count on down in the city. But look at it thisaway, ain’t I always been fair?”
“Fair? I’ll show you fair.” Mac reached the Porsche in four long strides. Raising the hammer, he brought it down on the left fender. “I’m taking care of your share right now, Tanky. This here is your share!” Mac brought the hammer down repeatedly on the fender.
Running, Tanky reached him and tried vainly to grab the hammer. Mac was not as tall as Tanky, but slim, fast, and wiry. “You sonnavabitch, you give that hammer here. Are you crazy?”
“Yeah, I’m crazy. Crazy for getting into this thing with you.”
“Gimme that.” Tanky tried to wrestle the hammer away.
“What about my share?” Mac hissed, shoving Tanky against the wall.
“Chrissakes,” Naoma shrieked from the door. “What in the hell are you two doing? Oh my God, you done grabbed a wrecked car.” Naoma ran toward the men, a bottle of beer swinging in each plump hand. “Stop it, you fools.” Her huge breasts strained against the lime green spandex tanktop. The men fell apart, gaping at her.
“Oh, all right, Mac. You made your point. You’ll get what you want.” Tanky took one of the beers. “You done spilled half of it, woman. What the hell’s wrong with you?”
Ignoring Tanky, Naoma handed the other beer to Mac. “What happened to the car?” she demanded, narrowing her eyes at the ballpeen hammer, now in Tanky’s hand. She waited. Finally, she turned and stomped off, tight jeans barely containing her ample butt. At the door Naoma turned. “Gene called. He’ll be here any minute with the flatbed. There better be something left to load. Ain’t nothing more better happen to that car, Tanky, or I’ll be back with the ax.” She slammed the door.
* * * *
WEDNESDAY, MAY 4th: “Damn Gene,” Mac muttered as he tried to maneuver the flatbed through D.C. traffic. He couldn’t remember the street name, although he’d been to Vito’s place before. Gene would have known. He should have been here. This was a two-man job. Damn Gene. At the last minute he’d run off home—some problem with his woman. Just left, stupid sonnavabitch. Couldn’t trust him. Last time Gene would ever be cut in. Finally Mac located the street. He left the flatbed, loaded with the gleaming white Porsche, parked in front of Vito’s nondescript garage and banged on the door. Nothing happened.
Not wanting to leave the flatbed unattended, Mac glanced back over his shoulder and silently cursed Gene again. He tried the door; it opened. He walked into total darkness. “What the hell is going on,” he muttered, feeling his way along a wall. He remembered that the office was in the back, to the left. Some idiot must have shut things down, forgotten about his delivery.
Growing accustomed to the dark, Mac moved silently toward the back of the building. Oughta cut and run, something not right here, he thought. But what could he do? Get back in the flatbed and drive the Porsche home again? No way. He’d taken enough risks. It was time to unload, get the money and take off. Vito was probably out to lunch, or screwing his secretary. Just because some fool turned the lights off, there was no reason to get spooked. This was payoff time.
Mac reached the office door and eased it open. More darkness. He stood there trying to figure out what to do next. Where was the light switch? He wasn’t sure what alerted him first, but suddenly he knew he wasn’t alone in the small room. The muscles tensed in the back of his neck. He skirted the room silently. Mac could make out the desk in the center of the room. Was someone slumped over it? Fumbling for his lighter; he flicked it on. Vito was
lying over the desk. His throat had been cut. “Oh, sweet Jesus,” Mac whispered. “Gotta get outta here.”
Suddenly, the garage outside the office door exploded with light and the noise of barked orders, cursing, men running, and equipment being overturned. Somebody was sure as hell searching for something or someone. Mac listened. Was it the cops? Oh shit! He was a sitting duck. No, probably not the cops. These men sounded too angry, too relentless. Vito’s “business partners”? They’d probably done Vito in, poor sonnavabitch. They’d sure as hell pop him if they found him here. Mac looked around carefully—no other door, nothing. He could hear the intruders working their way methodically toward the back of the building. Well, Tanky had had to pick gangsters to do business with, but Tanky wasn’t here to face the music.
Then Mac heard another noise, a soft sobbing sound coming from the corner of the room. He edged toward the sound. “Help. Help me, perfavore, aiuto! Get me out of here.”
“Where are you?” Mac whispered.
“Here, behind the bookcase.”
Looking down, Mac made out the small, huddled figure of a young girl. “Who are you?”
“Rosa. I’m Vito’s niece. Who are you?”
“Mac. I’m, eh, sort of a deliveryman. Sure as hell shouldn’ta made this delivery. Look, we gotta get outta here.”
“Yes, before they find us. They are bad men.”
“How? How can we get out?” Mac could hear the searchers coming closer.
“The window. Help me up. Hurry.” The girl crossed herself as she ran past Vito’s body.
The small window was set high in the wall. As Mac boosted her up, he realized she wasn’t near as young as he’d thought. Pretty filled out for a schoolgirl. She was also agile and quick. In minutes she had the window open. Straddling the frame, she reached down a hand for him.
Breathless and shaken, they found themselves in the narrow alley that ran along the side of the building. Mac grabbed the girl’s arm and steered her toward the flatbed truck parked in front. At the corner, they paused. Nothing. By now the men must be in Vito’s office. Soon, they’d spot the open window. “Wait here.” Mac ran into the street, reached the flatbed, and in minutes had released the Porsche. He didn’t have to look around for the girl; they fell into the car at the same time. Mac gunned the engine and the Porsche’s tires squealed. They were off.
“Somebody just ran out the front door.” The girl was looking back as the Porsche rounded the corner and blended into heavy traffic. “Oh, Grazie Dio.” She crossed herself. “We escaped. Now, Where can I go that they can’t find me?”
Glancing at her, Mac noted that she was dressed in a short skirt and baggy sweater. The student backpack she wore had given her the schoolgirl appearance. Lots of long, dark curls fell around her shoulders. She was a looker. She was also dangerous as hell. He should put her out at the next corner. Instead, he grinned at her and said, “Say, you ain’t American, are you? I like the way you talk. Don’t worry, I know a place in the hills where they ain’t never gonna find you. Prettiest place in the world in the spring. Ever heard of West Virginia?”
The Porsche crawled through city traffic. When they finally hit the Beltway, Mac relaxed a little. Turning off onto Route I-70 West, he felt free. “We’re in the state of Maryland now, have been for a while. After we pass Frederick, You’ll get your first look at the mountains.”
“We’re going to the mountains?”
“Yeah, lots of mountains in West Virginia. We’ll get off the Interstate at Hancock, Maryland, cross the Potomac River, and in a few miles hit a little place called Berkeley Springs. I grew up there. Best to avoid the town though. I know a lot of places in the hills and along the Ca’pon River where you’ll be safe. Matter of fact, my cousin Jett has a cabin in the hills near the river. Folks living on the back roads are loners, not used to strangers. They’re none too friendly to anybody poking around, asking questions.”
* * * *
While Mac and the girl drove toward West Virginia, Jett McCabe was trying to tie things up in his Washington, D.C. office. A big man in his mid-thirties, he looked like an older, heavier version of Mac. As a police Sergeant, Jett rated a small desk behind a partition. He wanted to leave for his cabin in West Virginia on Friday, a day earlier than he usually got away. Springtime was the hardest time to sit behind a desk. The redbuds would be in bloom behind the cabin. Chrissakes, the city was driving him crazy. He only hoped his dumbass cousin, Mac, had left the cabin alone. The last time Mac had crashed there, all his fishing tackle had disappeared. Mac had always had trouble drawing the line between what was his and what belonged to other people. And he wasn’t the only McCabe who had this problem. That was one reason Jett had left the West Virginia State Police and moved to the city. He’d gotten tired of arresting his uncles and cousins. “Can’t pick your relatives,” Jett muttered as he got back to work and opened a new file on the computer. It read: “DeMarco Crime Family.”
* * * *
Jimmy DeMarco leafed through the ledger book in Vito’s office. Without looking up, he issued orders quietly and concisely. “Mike, check over the flatbed from West Virginia again. Try to find the registration. See if the driver left anything in the cab. Move.”
“Joey, get rid of Vito here. You know what to do. I want the word spread that he held out on Jimmy DeMarco.” Shutting the ledger, he handed it to his driver. “Rico, we’ll take this with us. I want you to check on who Vito did business with in Vest Virginia.” DeMarco turned and left the office. The driver followed.
Settled in the Mercedes, DeMarco said, “So, who’s the girl who left in the Porsche with the kid from West Virginia?”
“Vito’s niece. She showed up a week ago, was in a convent school in Torino.”
“Chrissakes, don’t tell me I’m going to have to ice a nun?”
“She ain’t a nun yet, Boss. That’s why Vito brought her over here. He got a letter from the sisters telling him, he’s next of kin, see, that she had graduated from high school and was considering taking vows for the convent. He sent for her. Hadn’t seen her in fifteen years, since her parents died.”
“So, Rico, do you think Vito entrusted this little convent girl with my money? And if she doesn’t know anyone in the States, where could she be now?
* * * *
The Porsche labored up the rutted dirt road and stopped. “This is my cousin Jett’s place. He’s a cop down in the city so nobody’s usually here through the week. Whatdaya think”
“It is a good cabin. I like it here on the mountain.”
“This here is a really just a hill. But it’s a nice, quiet spot. Let’s go in and see if we can find something to eat. I’m starved.” Mac rented a small apartment in Berkeley Springs, but it hadn’t seemed like a good idea to go back there tonight.
“So, your cousin’s a policeman.” The girl smiled. “We have families, also, like this in Italy. They may not agree on anything, but they all go to Mass on Sunday and then sit down for dinner together. After all, family is family, yes?” Her smile made her really beautiful.
“Yeah, well Jett McCabe ain’t that forgiving. Don’t have an understanding bone in his body.” Mac realized that Jett would be mad as hell right now if he knew that Mac and the Italian girl were sitting in front of his fireplace. As far as Jett was concerned, his cousin Mac was a two-bit crook and hustler, and he would peg the girl as Mafia family. Mac grinned as he pictured Jett’s reaction to the hot Porsche parked outside. Well, too bad. Smartass sonnavabitch would be in for a surprise.
“Will I meet this Cousin Jett? I would like to thank him for his hospitality.”
“I don’t think so, eh…I don’t remember your name?”
“Rosa, Rosa Maria Teresa Delucca.”
“Yeah,” Mac said, “but I can’t call you that. How about Rosie?”
“Rosie is O.K. Yes, I like it. It’s American.”
“It’s American. I been wondering how you learned to speak English so good, Rosie?”
“Engli
sh? Well, at the school we had English classes. I also talk French, better French than English, I think. I lived near the French border and many of the nuns who taught us were French. Do you really think I talk good English?” She grinned.
Probably better than mine. Another thing that puzzles me, what were you doing in Vito’s office today? What happened?”
Rosie’s face crumpled. She put a hand over her mouth, but couldn’t stop tears. Gingerly, Mac moved closer and put a comforting arm around her.
“I had gone to help him count everything. You say ‘inventory.’ It was a small thing I could do to help. Zio Vito, Uncle Vito, had been so kind to me. We were working in the storeroom when he looked out the window and got very upset. A car had driven up in the alley, you see. His face went very white, and he told me to run and hide in the restroom. ‘Sta attenta! Corri!’ he told me. I did what he said. I could hear angry voices. My uncle kept saying, ‘Jimmy, per favore.’ I heard him scream, ‘Aiuto, Dio mio, Aiuto!’ He was calling for help, pleading for his life. He kept repeating, ‘Casa mia, casa mia.’ Rosie shuddered. “Then all was quiet. I heard the men leaving. Finally I snuck back to Uncle Vito’s office. I found him—E morto, dead. I should have left then, but I was too terrified. I know now that he threw the Mafia off, sending them to his home to search for…for what they wanted, so that I could escape. But I was idiota! I just hid there, crying. And then you came. You looked too young to be a Mafioso, but you had that beard, so I wasn’t sure at first.” She looked up at him. “You and I, we could both be dead along with Uncle Vito.”
“Yeah, I guess we could.” Mac stroked his short, closely trimmed beard. “So a beard makes you a gangster? Maybe I oughta shave it off.”
“No, no, I like it. It’s just that I was very scared and nervous then.”
Poor kid, he thought, she’s sure as hell been through a lot. “Don’t worry, nobody ain’t gonna mess with you no more, Rosie. You got my word on it.”
Wicked Women and Other Stories Page 9