He started to get up and a figure with a shotgun towered over him. Danielle, Tony’s missing queen-size girlfriend.
“Don’t shoot.”
“Only if you make me. Stop that shaking. Who the hell are you?”
“I’m shaking because my car exploded…Wait, my gas tank didn’t blow up. You had a bomb planted here. You tried to kill me!”
She sounded embarrassed. “I wasn’t after you. It was self-defense. My ex is coming here to waste me. He always drives Cadillacs.”
“I know. Tony Sartorelli is trying to kill me too. I’m his cousin.”
He had shocked her. Still, she argued, “I don’t believe you.”
He told her what he knew about Tony, the twins, Hawk, even Wyatt and the Kessler woman. “I’ll be damned,” she said. “And Marv is alive?”
“Sadly, he is. They’ll be here in minutes. Can we go in that cabin and make it a little more challenging for them to murder us?”
“I guess. Give me that gun you’ve got under your shirt. Do it carefully.”
He handed it to her. “It’s a starter’s pistol that shoots blanks for boat races. It’s all I could find in this one-horse town.” He peered apprehensively up the driveway. The Cadillac headlights were still on—tough cars, those Cadillacs.
She looked at the fake gun, snorted in derision and gave it back to him. They made their way thought the mist to the cabin. The two cars parked there were a new Chevy Monte Carlo and a station wagon. Once inside the cabin kitchen she said, “How far are they behind you?”
“Marv is creeping along in the fog, but I’d still say less than five minutes, unless they get lost.”
She shook her head. “They won’t get lost. Marv is a pokey driver, but he’s like a homing pigeon. But together maybe we can beat them.”
“With a crappy shotgun and a toy pistol? They probably have cannons.” He took a closer look at the cabin. “We’ll be sitting ducks in this place.”
“Right. So we’ll do it Tony’s way. He likes to run people over with cars, right?”
“There were four that I know of.”
“I only knew of two. Anyway, we won’t use the cabin. We’ll take these two cars out the gate and up the hill. When they see what’s left of your car they’ll stop at the driveway gate and get out to look at it. If I can get them with the shotgun I will. If not, we run them over with the cars.”
“You got to be kidding. You can’t see anything out there.”
“They’ll be visible because there’s a light on the gate post.” She turned a switch near the door, and the gate and the two tons of scrap that had been a new Cadillac were illuminated. “Come, on, we’ve got to get those cars in position. You take the station wagon.”
“Why do I get the old car?”
“The Monte Carlo is mine, dipshit. Take the wagon or we can stand here and draw straws.”
“All right, all right. It’d better have an automatic transmission.”
“It does. Once we’re outside the gate, you go up the slope to the left. Park by the trees, turn it around and watch the gate. When they get out of their car, if I can’t shoot them, you come at them from your side and I come at them from mine.” She picked up two carving knives from the kitchen table and handed him one. “If they still resist, we slit their throats.”
One had to admire her confidence. He fingered the knife she had given him. Dull. As they walked to the cars, he worried, “What if they get back in their car before we can run them over?”
“Oh, I’ll have something to distract them.”
“What?”
“You’ll hear it. Let’s go.”
Harold started the wagon and cautiously followed her through the gate. He bumped his way over rough terrain up to the tree line, listening to scraping, bending, and tearing noises, and was grateful the car was not his. Then he remembered that his rental Cadillac was not in returnable condition either. He pointed the wagon at the gate and turned out the headlights.
Engine at idle, he triple-checked his lap and shoulder belts and sat peering at what he thought was the driveway and scanning for car lights. Run them down with a car? Take them down with a dull kitchen knife when they might have a gun? How could that work? It was a stupid plan. How could he trust the judgment of a woman who had spent five months living with Tony Sartorelli?
****
Tom and Wyatt reached the cabin driveway. Coming out of the trees after the second turn, Tom cut his headlights. A powerful yard light illuminated the gate and he could make out a big sedan on its roof. Damn Gary. He’d rigged a bomb in the driveway after all. The upside-down car’s lights were still on, and the tall, narrow taillights were those of a Cadillac. It was probably the car that had passed him when his brakes had failed. Another bad guy?
Wyatt clutched Tom’s forearm. “Ohmigod. Is that the aunt’s Chrysler upside down?”
“No, it’s a Caddy. It had passed me on the road when I nearly hit you.”
The fog was thinner closer to the lake and Tom could see the cabin straight ahead, its porch lights trying to pierce the gloom. Well off to the side he identified the outline of a huge vehicle. He nudged Wyatt. “There’s the Suburban, but it’s just sitting there. At least it seems they’re not attacking the cabin yet.”
“Whose car is next to the cabin?”
“Danny’s Monte Carlo and Beth’s wagon should both be there.”
“No, neither one is. There’s only one, another big car.”
Tom forced his attention away from the capsized Cadillac and saw that Wyatt was right. Feebly illuminated by the porch lights was a long sedan. “Wyatt, that’s Mildred’s Chrysler. We have to go to down there right now.”
“Oh boy. Good enough, I’m ready. Do you have an extra gun, Tom?”
“I have no gun. I gave it to Gary. There should be a shotgun in the cabin and I hope Beth has it. I’ve got a baseball bat and a tire iron. Which do you want?”
“Not the bat. I went out for little league, but I could never figure out where the pitcher was going to throw the ball and…”
“The tire iron is under your seat. Take it.”
****
Harold longed to turn on the station wagon radio as a distraction but didn’t dare. What was taking Marv and Tony so long? Why was it so cold in the car? Why hadn’t Renada had a gun for him? Was he going to live to sit with her on the balcony of the Harold House B&B waving benignly at his distinguished guests? Could the Reverend Timmy-Bob still get him into heaven if he died here rather than in California? He looked at the dull knife and starter’s pistol on the floor between his feet. Worthless pieces of crap.
His driver’s door was abruptly yanked open and there was the cold touch of a blade at his throat, but it wasn’t Dani’s knife. Marv Sartorelli’s gravelly voice rasped, “Not a peep, asshole. You’re coming with me to our car.”
“Sure. Don’t cut me. The fog, how did you find me?”
“You had your foot on the brake pedal, moron. Why are you here?”
“Me? I’m looking for a vacation place to rent and got lost in the fog.”
“Bullshit.” Marv moved his knife fractionally, breaking Harold’s skin. “What happened to that car that’s on its roof down there?”
“It’s my car. The gang down there blew it up with a land mine.”
“People got no respect for property any more. How many are in my cabin?”
“There are three big guys from the Detroit mob and all of them have guns.”
“Yeah, right. It’s Hawk and those other kids. My frigging gun is at the bottom of a frigging lake.”
“Aw, that’s too bad, Marv.”
“I can tell you’re crushed. Come on. Tony’s waiting for us in my Suburban.”
Harold tried to see the Monte Carlo and couldn’t. The fog was too thick for Dani to get anyone with the shotgun unless she was within thirty feet. He was so screwed.
Chapter Twenty-One
An over-amplified voice split the foggy night. Tom recognized T
ony’s voice, stilted but clear enough. He could have been standing beside them. “This here is Tony Sartorelli’s autobiography, the story of my life. They say life is what you make it. That’s bull. The Family took my life, cheated me of my own destiny. Who knows what I might of done? Probably I could of sung opera.”
A second voice interrupted Tony, Dani’s voice. “Aw, listen to poor little Tony on my tape player. What crap that was. Here we got a cheap French-Swede mobster passing for a wop, making himself out to be the victim, a man who can’t button his shirt straight, who needed the Mafia to become anybody at all, and he’s an embarrassment to them.”
“What’s Dani doing?” Wyatt demanded.
“She’s putting Tony off balance with an incriminating tape he made. She’s hit pay dirt.”
“Is that coming from the cabin?”
“I can’t tell where she is. She could be anywhere in this pea soup.”
Dani’s voice came back. “I love this part. Just listen to this moron.”
Tony’s tape resumed, “I always felt I provided like essential services to society, like relief from the troubles of the day, things like a nice high for the little people, and companionship for lonely guys. I didn’t have to do all that. I could of been a great chef.”
Dani interrupted again. “You sure would know about lonely guys, Tony. Nobody likes you. Your mother doesn’t like you. And chef my ass, the only thing you ever cooked without burning it was that poor little horse jockey Tom Hawk found in your pizza oven.”
The form that had to be the green Suburban roared to life. They heard the splintering of fence rails and saw it hurdle toward the cabin. “That truck. It’s going to ram the cottage,” shouted Wyatt. “Why would they do that? Why would they drive into the side of the building?”
The deafening sound of Tony crashing into the cabin delayed Tom’s answer for a moment. Then, as it shifted into reverse and backed away, he said, “They’re doing it to hurt Beth and anyone else inside. They’re homicidal and out of control.”
“Why don’t they just go in shooting?”
Why indeed? The answer came to Tom, and it was the best news in a while. “Wyatt, it’s got to be because they don’t have any guns either. If we can disable their truck we can stop them.”
“Disable their truck how?”
“We’re going to have to ram it, like in a demolition derby.”
“Tom, we’ll just bounce off the side of that truck in this thing.”
Tom started the Nash forward. “Mildred’s Chrysler is big enough. We’ll see who’s in the cabin. Hang on!” The Suburban had retreated into thicker fog. Tom drove ahead blowing the tinny but distinctive Nash horn to identify himself, but nothing moved at the cabin. He used up more precious brake fluid to stop the Nash next to the Chrysler. The keys were in the big car’s ignition and he grabbed them. Hallelujah. “Wait here while I look for the others,” he told Wyatt. The cabin was empty.
When he came out, Wyatt sat in the driver’s seat of the Nash. It was just as well. Tom didn’t need him in the Chrysler to ram Tony and he could get hurt. Wyatt asked, “Beth?”
“No Beth. Nobody’s in there. They must be outside and on foot. We’ve got to get out of here in case I’m wrong about the Sartorellis not having guns.”
The boy detective started the Nash and sped away, crashing an opening in the fence. Tom followed him through and saw the Suburban racing straight for the cabin. Tony was willing to run over people or buildings in his rage. Tom prepared to play crash test dummy.
****
The concussive sound inside the Suburban had been deafening as the big truck crumbled the north wall of the cabin. Miraculously, Harold, belted tightly into the right rear seat with his hands tied behind his back, was unhurt. The cabin lights stayed on after the vehicular attack, and he was looking through a cracked windshield at a plaid sofa and the stuffed head of an eight-point buck. They had penetrated the building by a foot or two but no one was crushed lifeless under the wheels.
As Tony backed away from the damaged wall, Marv leaned across the front seat to his ear and griped, “You made a frigging tape recording of everything we did? The deals and the hits and everything?”
“Yes I did. I made it so when I’m gone they can make a movie about me like the one with the Jewish kid and Marlon Brando. It’s for my posterity.”
“You got your brain up your fat posterity. I can’t believe you did this. It’s frigging self-recrimination.”
“I can’t believe Harvey ran out on us. I can’t believe you let him. I can’t believe that she-devil Dani got hold of my tape. I’m going to run over her thick skull. Brace yourself. We’re going back in.”
Tony reached to shift back into “drive,” but Marv seized his wrist. “I’m not going to let you kill me. You let me out first, you hear?”
“I’d like to get out too, please,” begged Harold.
“Shut up,” shouted Tony and Marv.
Tony snarled, “You get out of this truck and you’re fired, Marvin.”
“You can’t fire me, Anthony. I’m your brother.”
“Pa is dead. I can do what I want. I can have that fink-out Harvey or you whacked, like Michael Corleone’s weakling brother in the movie. What was his name?”
“Freddie,” offered Harold, still hoping to ingratiate himself.
“You could hit a gas line or something if you drive into there again,” warned Marv.
“You could be the biggest sissy in America.”
Harold looked back to the cabin, which was defined in the fog only by the light through its windows, hoping it had fallen down completely of its own volition thus sparing him another trip through its walls. But, save for a single Chevy truck-sized hole, it looked unchanged. Then he saw a moving object. It was smaller than a vehicle—no, it was a tiny vehicle, emerging from the gloom between them and the cabin. Its headlights were off so it was not his hoped-for police car. What was it, then?
He was suddenly jolted toward the door of the truck by a new force of collision. An ear-splitting reverberation filled the air. “What the hell?” Tony yelled.
Harold looked behind him and saw the little Nash convertible had been rammed into their vehicle near the right rear wheel. A dark form, too thin to be Hawk, clambered painfully out. It had to be Wyatt.
Marv told Tony, “Someone ran a golf cart into us. He just jumped out if it.”
“Shoot him!”
“I got no gun. You shoot him.”
“I couldn’t bring no gun on an airplane, idiot. Damn hijacking Cubans. It was Castro killed Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe, you know.”
The slender form disappeared into the fog. Harold suggested, “You boys should just drive away from here before all this racket brings the cops.”
Tony turned around, livid. Harold expected his cousin to spit in his face, but Tony passed on that and threatened, “One more word from you and we’ll slit your throat, you worthless two-bit bean counter.” Then to his brother, “Marvin, get out and see if my rear tire is all right where that thing hit us.”
“Why do I have to get out?”
“Because I’m in charge. A minute ago you couldn’t wait to get out. Go!”
Marv’s door wouldn’t open. “Tony, he jammed my door shut. You got to let me out your side.”
“Oh, for the love of…” Tony took the car keys, opened the driver’s door, stepped down and waited for his brother to wriggle across the seat and climb down. He was back in the driver’s seat before Marv had taken three steps. As soon as Marv was behind the truck, Tony locked his door and started the engine. “Goodbye, Marv, you candy-ass. And say goodbye to your cabin too,” he yelled.
“Oh no!” Harold screamed.
“Oh, yeah, we’re going back in even if it does kill us. Now maybe you’re sorry you ran out on me in 1958,” Tony screamed, slamming the gearshift lever into drive.
Harold would have covered his face, but his hands were tied behind him. He shut his eyes tight and didn’t open them until
a thunderous noise and the tearing of metal hurt his eardrums. Something big had plowed into the left side of the Suburban. He saw Tony fighting the steering wheel as they careened past the cabin, missing it by mere feet.
****
Angling for the right attack position himself, Tom had seen Wyatt crash the Nash into the side of Marv’s vehicle, and thought he’d seen him climb out of the miniature car and run away. The kid might lack common sense, but he had balls after all. The big truck had disappeared into the fog. But soon he heard a door slam, and he saw it coming out of the mists. He had to run Mildred’s Chrysler into it before it could run anyone down.
He drove straight at their headlights as they approached. The Chrysler was a heavy car, but it was no match head-on for the monster SUV. In his second prayer in the space of a few minutes he asked not to come out of this a cripple; dead if necessary, but not quadriplegic.
There was an ear-shattering noise and the Suburban veered violently to the right. Tom braked instinctively, forgetting his planned collision. The truck passed him close enough that he could see Tony’s profile at the wheel before it again disappeared into the darkness. He could also see the sheet metal was badly crumpled on the left side, not the right side Wyatt had attacked earlier. What had hit them now?
The answer was dead ahead of him. There sat the ruin of Dani’s Monte Carlo. It no longer had the longest hood in the industry. The front had collapsed more to the length of a Volkswagen. The left front wheel was in the wheelhouse, but no longer connected to the axle. Tom braked to a halt. He watched Dani push open her driver’s door and emerge clutching her portable tape player and Mildred’s shotgun. She raced to his car, tore open the front passenger door, and jumped in. The barrel of the shotgun was bent from the collision.
“Go! Geez, Tom, this car isn’t even damaged. I thought from the sound I heard a bit ago you had smashed into those bozos.”
“No. Wyatt beat me to it in the Nash. I think he got away on foot.”
“Holy smokes. Way to go, detective kid. When I saw them, they were still mobile. I took a turn at ramming them. The Monte Carlo is in Tony’s name anyway.” She indicated the useless shot gun. “Sorry about that gun. Where’s Beth?”
Hiding Tom Hawk Page 25