by S. J. Rozan
I took a drink. “I had.”
“But no longer?”
“I’m hard to live with.”
“Was your wife also hard to live with?”
“Her second husband doesn’t think so.”
“And children?”
That was territory where no one went. I drank, put my cigarette out. “Look, Miss Colgate, you called me. I can use the work, but not the inquisition. I gave you references; call them if you want, ask about me.”
“I have.” She didn’t continue.
“Well, that’s all you get.”
We drank in silence for a while. Eve Colgate’s eyes never rested. They swept the room, probing the corners, counting the bottles on Tony’s shelves. They inspected the cobwebs at the rafted ceiling. Every now and then, unpredictably, they returned to me, settling on my face, my hands, taking off again.
“Yes,” she said suddenly, draining her glass. “You’ll do. I’ll expect you tomorrow morning. Do you know where I live?”
“You’ll expect me to do what?”
“Some—things were stolen from me. They’re worth a good deal of money; and yet they’re not as valuable to the thief as they are to me. I want them back.”
“The police are good at that sort of thing.”
Her eyes flashed. “I’m not a stupid woman, Mr. Smith. If I’d wanted the police involved I would have called them.”
“Why haven’t you?”
She stood. So did I. “I don’t want to discuss it here. If, after I tell you what I need done, you don’t want to do it, I’ll pay you for your time and your trip. Thank you for the drink, Mr. Smith.” She walked from the room, her back straight, her steps measured.
When the door shut behind her the bar was the same as it had been before, as it had always been. Men and women who’d been stopping in at Antonelli’s after work since Tony’s father had run the place bought each other drinks, talked quietly about sports, the weather, their cars, and their kids. In the back, laughing, smoking, drinking beer from the bottle, was a tableful of young kids who’d been children when I first started coming here. Now that rear table was clearly theirs, Antonelli’s as much their place as their parents’. Room had been made for them, and Antonelli’s continued.
I swirled the bourbon around in my glass, then signaled to Marie, Tony’s waitress, who was leaning on the bar chewing gum and trading wisecracks with the Rolling Rock drinkers. “Hi,” she said, bouncing over to my table. “Can I get you something?” Her shaggy hair was bleached to a very pale blond, fine and soft.
“Hi.” I pointed to my glass. “I need more ice, and I’m starving. What do you have?”
“Lasagna.” She nibbled on a maroon fingernail that must have been an inch long. “And bean soup. And the usual stuff.” She giggled.
I ordered the lasagna. Marie bounced off chomping openmouthed on her gum. I glanced up at the TV. The golf was over, the news was on. That meant there’d be NCAA basketball soon. I had a client, a bellyful of bourbon, and Tony’s lasagna coming. I stretched my legs and idly watched an elderly couple a few tables over. They were eating dinner in a silence punctuated only by quiet remarks and small gestures that dovetailed so perfectly they might have been choreographed.
I’d told Lydia I was coming up here, told her I’d be away; but I hadn’t said I’d be meeting a client, that I might be working.
I got up, bought a Mountain Eagle from the pile by the bar. Sipping my bourbon, I caught up on what had been happening since I’d last come up.
There was federal DOT money coming along and with it the state was planning to replace or rebuild three county roads. That was bad. Seven years ago they’d replaced this stretch of 30 with a faster, straighter road on the other side of the valley. Now this was strictly a local road and most of the establishments along it had died slow, lonely deaths. Antonelli’s was one of the few still open.
I glanced at the other lead stories. Appleseed Baby Foods was expanding. That was good. Appleseed was the only major employer in the county. Appleseed CEO Mark Sanderson smiled from a front-page photo. I sipped my bourbon, considered the photo. In the old days, pictures of the state senator’s Christmas party or the county Fourth of July bash always included a shot of Mark Sanderson with his arm around the usually bare shoulders of his stunning wife, Lena. Then four years ago she’d left him, just walked away. Consensus among the women in the county seemed to be that anyone married to Mark Sanderson would have considered that option, maybe much earlier than Lena Sanderson did, but Sanderson reported her to the county Sheriff and to the State Troopers as a missing person, made anguished televised pleas for her to come home, and waited. My professional opinion at the time was that the cops would come up empty and we’d seen the last of her, and I was right. Looking at Sanderson’s round, smiling face now, it seemed to me he’d come through the whole thing pretty well.
I drank more bourbon, read on. New York State Electric and Gas had run an open meeting to get local comment on a natural gas pipeline they wanted to pull through the county. It would be heading down from Canada, where the gas was, to New York City, where it was needed. Local comment pro had to do with promised jobs. Local comment con was about tearing up fields, fencing off pastureland, polluted water, damaged crops, and the chance of major explosions. Pro won, hands down.
I lit a cigarette, turned the page. The Consolidated East girls’ basketball team had won the tri-county championship in a squeaker last Friday. There was a photo with this one too, sweaty, long-legged girls grinning at the camera, arms around each other’s shoulders. I imagined that picture fixed with magnets to refrigerator doors all around the county.
I was onto the Police Blotter—a lot of DWIs, one marijuana arrest—when Marie sashayed over, bringing silverware and a tall glass of ice. As she put them on my table the door swung open, letting a chill breeze push into the room.
I looked over. Three men stepped inside, chuckling as though they’d just exchanged a joke. They headed for the big table at the front. The first to sit, an angular, pasty man, cocked a finger at Marie, winking. The features on the left side of his face—ear, eye, eyebrow—were set a little higher than the ones on the right, and his nose was crooked. The other two men dropped themselves into chairs on either side of him. The big one was dark, with a thick, droopy mustache, wide shoulders, and an easy, friendly manner. The other was small and bony with bad skin and dead-brown hair.
Marie, paling, looked unsurely to Tony. Tony shook his head, lifted the gate, stepped around the bar.
“Who’s that?” I asked Marie quietly.
“Frank Grice,” she whispered, her eyes on Tony.
“No kidding.” I knew that name: The trouble Jimmy Antonelli had been in last fall, the hole I’d dug him out of, was because he’d been dumping stolen cars for Frank Grice, cars Grice used to run dope from Miami to Albany. But Grice denied knowing the kid, and Jimmy wouldn’t roll on him. Grice left the state when the sheriff picked Jimmy up and came back after my lawyer had gotten him out. I knew the name; but this was the first time I’d laid eyes on him.
I ground out my cigarette and leaned forward in my chair as Tony walked to where the three men sat.
“You ain’t welcome here, Frank.” He spoke low to Grice, ignoring the others. The line of his jaw was white. “Get out.”
“What kind of a way is that to talk, Tony?” Frank Grice smiled widely, spread his hands innocently, palms up. “We just came by for a drink.”
“Drink somewhere else.”
Grice didn’t answer. He took a pack of cigarettes out of his overcoat, pulled one loose. The big guy flicked a gold lighter for him. Grice looked at the flame as if it were something new and interesting. Lighting the cigarette, he looked up at Tony. Smoke streamed lazily from his mouth. He said something softly, so softly I couldn’t hear it. Tony went a deep red, I couldn’t hear his answer either. Grice stood suddenly. The other two exchanged looks, then followed suit. Grice sauntered to the door, opened it, and held it open, sm
iling the whole time, his cigarette dangling from his cockeyed lips. Tony half turned, searching for Marie. “Keep an eye on things,” he growled. “I’ll be right back.” He slammed forward, past Grice, through the open door. Grice followed, his boys followed him, and the door swung shut behind them.
Before the door closed I was out of my chair, moving swiftly past the bar and through the vinyl-padded doors that swung into the kitchen. Buzzing fluorescent lights, too bright, reflected off the stainless-steel counters. The room smelled of garlic and ammonia. A skinny kid up to his elbows in greasy water stared as I slipped out the kitchen door into the winter darkness. My steps made no sound as I rounded the corner of the building, a cold wind pushing its way through my shirt. Three figures—Tony, Grice, and the big, friendly man—leaned close together in the middle of the parking lot; a fourth, the little guy, stood by the bar’s front door. I worked my way in the shadows of parked cars.
I couldn’t see Tony’s face, but his voice came to me, tight and gravelly. “You don’t get it, Frank. I want you outta here, damn fast.”
“No, you don’t get it, Tony.” Grice’s voice still held a smile. “If I’m thirsty, you pour me a drink. If I’m hungry, you grill me a steak. That’s how it is now.”
“Hell it is,” Tony spat.
A nod from Grice, just a small movement of his misshapen head, and the big man slipped behind Tony like a shadow, pinned his arms as Grice smashed his fist into Tony’s belly. Tony doubled over, groaning. The big man pulled him up. Grice laughed, rubbed his fist into the palm of his other hand. He stopped laughing suddenly as I slammed into him like a freight train, spreading him backwards across the rusted trunk of an old red Chevy. I backhanded him once across the mouth, just to slow him down; then I sprang back, left him there. He was Tony’s.
Tony tore himself out of the big man’s surprised grip and reached both hands for Grice, hauled him off the car while I grabbed the big man’s shoulder, spun him around. I threw my best punch into the middle of his mustache. He wasn’t any bigger than I was, and my best wasn’t bad, but it didn’t faze him. He staggered back; then, spreading his lips in a hungry smile, he launched himself at me. I sidestepped, drove a kick into his ribs. He stumbled; I watched. Then something crashed into me from behind, knocked me to the ground. Small, bony hands tightened around my throat, squeezing, shaking. A knee dug into my back.
Gravel scraped the side of my face as I twisted, digging with my right foot, trying to shake off the little guy as my lungs began to strain for air. I groped at his hands pressing into my windpipe. My heart pounded, raced; yellow and red explosions started behind my eyes. His breath rasped loudly in my ear. I had no breath at all. The world got smaller, darker. Closing on one finger of each choking hand I forced them back, my muscles only half obeying, beginning to tremble. I put everything into bending those two fingers; at the last minute the hands loosened and I clawed them away from my throat.
I sucked air loudly and twisted left, yanking on his right arm. He slipped from my back; I drove my right elbow hard beside me into whatever was there. It landed solidly enough to send bolts of pain ricocheting up and down my arm. From the sounds behind me, I wasn’t the only one who noticed. I pulled away and got up on one knee and then the big man was back, with a fist the size of a bowling ball slamming into my chin. My head snapped back and I landed in a cold muddy puddle. I lay motionless, breathing hard.
The big man leaned over me, relaxed and smiling, for a good look. When he was near enough that I could smell the stale coffee on his breath. I shot my arms out and grabbed his jacket, pulled my knee to my chest, shoved my foot into his gut. I straightened my leg and threw him away from me, and this time when he stumbled I was right there, three fast mean punches pounding his face and another sharp kick up under his ribs. He moaned and started to sag. I clenched my hands together and swung them like a hatchet down on the place where his neck joined his shoulder. At first nothing happened; then he fell over sideways like a tree. I stepped back, panting, and looked around. The little bony guy was standing now but he was a lot smaller than I was and he wouldn’t try to take me again, not from the front where I could see him coming. I grinned so he’d know I knew that.
A loud, wordless sound came from behind me. I whipped around and saw Tony sitting on Frank Grice’s chest, his knees pinning Grice’s arms, his square fist thumping repeatedly into Grice’s already bloody face. “Tony!” I yelled hoarsely. “Hey, Tony, that’s enough! Come on, man, you’re going to kill him.”
I pulled Tony back and off Grice, who groaned, rolled, and worked his way slowly to his feet. Tony struggled in my grip and I held him, not relaxing until he did.
“All right?” I asked, as his rocky muscles loosened under my hands. He nodded and I let him go.
Grice stood slightly stooped, breathing noisily through his mouth. He lifted a hand to his face, cupping his nose, then moved the hand away. “You’ll pay for this, Tony,” he hissed. “This was stupid. And you”—he turned his bloody face to me—“whoever the hell you are, stay the fuck out of my way from now on.”
“Aw, Frank,” I said, my voice still hoarse. “Why should Tony have all the fun?”
Something flared in Grice’s eyes. I suddenly noticed how cold I was, soaked with sweat and muddy water out here in the winter night.
“Go on, Tony,” Grice said, still looking at me. “You bring in all the smartass muscle you want. It won’t help you, Tony.” He coughed.
“I don’t need no help, you son of a bitch,” Tony snarled, taking two fast steps toward Grice.
From off to my right a voice like gears grinding said, “Don’t do that.” I spun around. Ten feet away, the little bony guy was planted, legs spread apart, holding an automatic pointed at the center of Tony’s chest.
Grice and Tony saw the gun the same time I did. Everyone froze, and for a long moment no one moved in the graveled lot under the blue-black sky, scattered now with more stars than a man could count, even in a long lifetime.
My gun was pressed to my ribs under my flannel shirt, as out of reach as the stars.
Then Grice laughed, a short, guttural sound, as of something being ripped in two. “Oh, Christ, Wally. What the hell is that for? Put it away. Come on, let’s go.” He looked at me, then at Tony. “Next time,” he said.
He turned sharply and walked to a big blue Ford, got in the front passenger door. The little guy hesitated, swore, then tucked the gun into his belt. He grabbed the big man, who looked as if he wasn’t sure what day it was. Steering him to the car, he shoved him through the rear door, got behind the wheel, and sprayed gravel tearing out of the lot.
Tony and I watched the red glow of their taillights vanish down 30. “I don’t like your friends,” I told him.
“You got Frank pissed off at you now,” he said.
I fingered my left cheek carefully. It felt hot and sore. “You owe him, Tony?”
Tony turned to me. A lead curtain fell behind his eyes. “I don’t owe nobody, Smith.” He wiped his hand down his sweaty face. “You shoulda stayed out of it.”
“Yeah,” I shrugged. “But I was hungry. Grice beats the shit out of you, I don’t get my lasagna.”
We turned together, headed back toward the door. The ancient, pitted tin sign that read “Antonelli’s,” Tony’s father’s sign, creaked as it swung in the wind. A smile cracked Tony’s face. “Sucker,” he said. “I’m outta lasagna.”
A BITTER FEAST
Copyright © 1998 by S.J. Rozan. Excerpt from Stone Quarry © 1999 by S.J. Rozan.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
eISBN 9781429908511
First eBook Edition : March 2011
EAN: 80312-97011-6
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 98-21558
; St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition/September 1998
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition/July 1999