NINE
The place Rathka found for her was on the inlet in Avon, just north of Belmar. It was a one-story, single-family house, the backyard sloping down to the water and a small dock. A sliding glass door in the living room gave onto a back deck. From there, she could see where the inlet emptied into the ocean, a quarter mile away.
The other houses on the street were summer rentals, empty now. She’d paid three months in advance for this one, $1,500 a month and security, no lease. The house was furnished, but hadn’t been lived in for months.
She’d driven the Focus long enough, never liked to keep the same car for long. She’d returned it at a local office, then taken a cab to another rental company a few miles away. She’d driven out with a Ford Taurus, stopped for groceries and wine on the way home.
There was a wall unit in the living room, TV and stereo. She searched the dial until she found WQXR, the classical station out of New York. It was almost all she’d listened to when she’d lived there.
The Tomcat lay disassembled on a sheet of newspaper on the kitchen table. She cleaned and oiled it with a kit she’d bought at a sporting goods store. The magazine held seven rounds. She unloaded it, tested the spring, then thumbed the shells back in. Handel’s “Sarabande” filled the empty rooms.
When the gun was reassembled, she wiped it down with a rag, then fit the magazine into the grip until it seated. She worked the slide to test the action, and chamber a round. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it would have to do. She lowered the hammer, slipped the safety on, set the gun atop the refrigerator.
The wine was a Chateau d’Arcins, Haut-Medoc. She opened it to let it breathe, then found a dusty wineglass in a kitchen cabinet. She rinsed it out, turned the radio louder, carried glass and bottle out onto the deck.
Chill out here, but the wind felt good, brought the smell of the tide with it. She set the bottle and glass on the wrought-iron table, pulled out the matching chair. The sun was somewhere behind the clouds, fighting to get through.
She left the door open so she could hear the music. Wind riffled the vertical blinds behind her. Water sloshed gently against the dock.
She poured wine, thought about Wayne in a five-by-nine prison cell in Texas, and Jimmy, living out his final years in a retirement home, every day bringing a new indignity, stealing part of the man he used to be.
And what would she do when her own string was played out? If she stayed in the life, the odds were against her. Prison or a bullet. She’d come close to both in December, and only luck had gotten her out of it alive.
She drank wine, looked out at the water, and listened to the wind.
* * *
The hotel was on the edge of Newark Airport, planes passing by every few minutes, clawing their way into the sky. She left the Taurus in the short-term lot, walked back to the terminal and got a cab. The Tomcat was in the small of her back, tucked into her belt, her sweater pulled down over it. She wore the leather gloves.
Cavanaugh’s suite was on the twelfth floor. They’d agreed on the hotel. It would be better like this, a public place in the middle of the afternoon. Less chance of someone getting stupid.
At the door, she could hear muffled conversation inside. When she knocked, it stopped.
She unzipped her jacket. Footsteps on carpet, and then the door opened.
“Ola,” Romero said. He stepped aside to let her in, shut the door behind her.
They were in a mirrored foyer. Cavanaugh was in the big room beyond, sitting on a couch, his arms spread over the back. He wore black slacks, a white shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. There was a wide window behind him, the curtains pushed back for a view of leaden sky. He was smiling.
“Come on in,” he said. “Have a seat.”
Romero went past her into the living room, to a sideboard with bottles and glasses. She looked around. There was a hallway to the right, closed doors. Bedroom, bathroom.
“Relax,” Cavanaugh said. “Want a drink?”
She shook her head. “No, thanks. Let’s just do this, all right?”
“Fair enough.”
Romero plinked ice into two square glasses, poured an inch of scotch into each of them. He set one on the glass coffee table in front of Cavanaugh, sipped the other himself. He wore a suit jacket over an open shirt, polished cowboy boots with silver toe caps.
She heard a toilet flush, turned, right elbow easing back the tail of her jacket. One of the doors opened, and a man came out. A younger version of Romero. Dark-skinned, wiry, hair freshly slicked back. Suit jacket with the sleeves pushed up. Tattoos on his hands and forearms.
She looked at Cavanaugh. “Who’s this?”
“That’s Jorge. He works for me.”
“In your office?”
“Sometimes.” Cavanaugh sipped scotch. He gestured to a chair. She moved it to get an angle on the whole room, sat.
Jorge took a seat next to the sideboard. Romero went to the window, swirled scotch in his glass. She heard the rumble of a plane going by overhead.
“So,” Cavanaugh said. “You surprised I came through for you?”
“Should I be?” she said.
“Maybe, being as we’re practically strangers. But I think you’re going to be very happy we met.”
“Okay.”
“Jorge,” he said. “Go ahead, get it for her.”
She watched Jorge get up, go back down the hallway, heard a door open. He came out with a leather briefcase, brought it over to Cavanaugh, set it flat on the table.
“What you came for,” Cavanaugh said. He set his glass down, swiveled the briefcase so the latches faced him. Jorge went back to his seat.
“Those bills were better than I thought,” Cavanaugh said. He opened the briefcase, took out a wide, overstuffed manila envelope. “There’ve been a lot of phony twenties around, so I was a little wary, you know? But I checked all of them out. They were as good as you said. So, I thought in that case I might do a little better. I made it thirty cents on the dollar.”
Forty-five grand to her, instead of thirty-seven. Still not good, but better.
“Thanks,” she said. “But you’re still coming out way ahead.”
“Maybe. But I’m also the one taking the risk.”
“The risk was mine, getting those bills in the first place.”
“True that. But it’s like they say, CREAM, baby.”
“What?”
“CREAM—Cash Rules Everything Around Me. You never heard that one?”
She shook her head. With the briefcase open, she couldn’t see what else was inside. He set the manila envelope on the table.
“Go ahead,” he said. “That’s yours.”
She looked at Jorge, then Romero. They were watching her, but hadn’t moved. She got up from the chair, picked up the envelope, sat back down.
“I think you’re going to find doing business with me is a very lucrative proposition,” he said.
She frowned at his use of the word again, opened the flimsy clasp. Banded bills inside. She riffled through the packs, then shook them out on her lap. She counted them twice. Twenty thousand.
“Where’s the rest?”
He picked up his glass, sipped scotch. “That’s just the cash end. Small change compared to what you can have by this time next week.”
The window rattled. Another plane going by.
“We had a deal,” she said. She put the money back in the envelope.
“And now I’m offering you a better one.”
She set the envelope against the chair leg, wanting her hands free. She flexed her fingers inside the gloves. Romero put his glass on the windowsill.
“You know what this is?” Cavanaugh said. He took a bundle the size of a paperback book from the briefcase, set it on the table. Brown paper wrapped in plastic, taped shut.
“I don’t want to know,” she said. “I just want my money.”
“There it is, right there. Twenty-five K worth of the best coke in the Northeast. So pure, you ca
n step on it five, six times, and it’ll still blaze. You can turn that into seventy-five thousand easy, maybe more. I can help you do it.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
His smile disappeared. “Do I look like I’m kidding you?”
“Either that, or you’re just stupid. This is bullshit.” She stood, the envelope falling over.
“Easy there,” Romero said. Jorge leaned forward in his chair.
“You should sit down,” Cavanaugh said. “Think about the opportunity I’m offering you.”
“I did. And I gave you my answer.”
“Your loss.” He put the bundle back in the briefcase. “Go ahead, take your money and go.”
“You owe me twenty-five thousand.”
He shrugged. “I offered you a deal. You turned up your nose at it. Like you said, you made your choice.”
She looked at Romero. He’d left the glass where it was, come around the couch to stand on Cavanaugh’s left. He’d have a gun beneath the suit jacket. Jorge, too. She had to keep the situation calm, get out of there, then figure out what to do next. But leaving without the rest of the money would sting.
“Well?” Cavanaugh said.
She bent, picked up the envelope.
Jorge was on his feet. He said, “Stop right there, chica.” Then to the others, “She’s carrying.”
Cavanaugh frowned. Romero came toward her. She took a step back, and then Jorge had an automatic in his hand. He touched the muzzle to her head.
Romero stood in front of her. She was aware of his size, could smell a faint undercurrent of sweat.
“Belt,” Jorge said. “Under the coat.”
Romero looked into her eyes. Jorge poked her ear with the gun, a Ruger .380. “Don’t move, puta. Not a cunt hair.”
Romero reached around, patted her hips through the leather, felt the gun. Without taking his eyes off hers, he hiked up the coat. His hand passed across her waist, the tightness of her buttocks. She flinched. He reached up under her sweater, pulled the Tomcat free, stepped back. Cavanaugh stood.
“You come to a meeting with me,” he said, “carrying a gun?”
Romero looked over the .32, handed it to him. Cavanaugh ejected the magazine, tossed it onto the couch. He pulled the slide back, saw the round there.
“One in the chamber, huh?” he said. “You fucking bitch.”
His right hand came up fast, caught her across the face, snapped her head to the side. Her temple thumped into the muzzle of Jorge’s gun.
“What I should do,” Cavanaugh said, “is make you suck all of our dicks right here, right now. What do you think about that?”
She looked back at him. “You sure you’ve got one?”
He slapped her again, brought water to her eyes. She looked past him at Romero. No gun in his hands yet, but he would be the real threat.
Cavanaugh reached out, pinched her left breast hard. She pulled away. The Ruger touched her head again. Cavanaugh smiled.
“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood today,” he said. He tossed the Tomcat onto the couch. “Go on. Get out of here. Do it now, before I change my mind.”
She looked at him, didn’t move. He stepped back. “Go on. Out.”
She reached for the envelope. He swept it aside with his foot, money spilling out.
“No,” he said. “You had your chance. I offered the deal, you turned me down. Finito. Now get out of here.”
Jorge stepped away to let her by, lowering his gun.
“I’m giving you ten seconds,” Cavanaugh said. “After that, you can’t leave. You’ll be on your knees for all of us. Then Romero will call some of his Salvadoran buddies, and we’ll make a real evening of it.”
“Go on,” Romero said. “He’s serious. Vamos.”
She backed away, cheek still burning, started for the door. Jorge’s gun was at his side. When she passed, he flicked his tongue at her. She stopped, turned to him.
“You like that, mamacita?” he said.
She let her expression soften. “Maybe.”
“You want some? I’ll give you all you can handle.”
Romero was frowning. Another plane flew past. The glasses on the sideboard shook.
“That a promise?” she said. He smiled, stepped in closer, and she put a thumb deep into his left eye.
He moved the way she thought he would, whipping his head back, turning to his left, the gun coming up. She slapped her left hand over the barrel, got her right hand on his wrist, twisted, and put her right shoulder hard into his chest. He went back over the chair and into the sideboard, taking down bottles and glasses as he fell. Then she had the Ruger, was coming around with it in her hand.
Cavanaugh froze. Romero started to back away, reaching under his coat. “Don’t,” she said, and when the gun came out anyway, she shot him through the right shoulder.
Cavanaugh jumped at the noise. The shot blew Romero back, dropped him. She swiveled to cover all of them, the Ruger in a two-handed grip. Cavanaugh stood still.
Romero lay on his side, right hand outstretched, still holding the dark automatic. She brought a boot heel down hard on his wrist, then kicked the gun from his grip, took a step and kicked it again. It slid across the carpet and under the couch.
The noise of the plane died away. Cavanaugh hadn’t moved. Jorge was on his knees now, a hand over his eye, breathing hard. The smell of alcohol drifted up from the carpet.
Wayne’s voice in her head: Keep the momentum. Take control of the situation. Don’t let it fall apart on you.
She pointed the Ruger at Cavanaugh’s face. “Kneel.”
“Listen,” he said. “I don’t…”
She thumbed back the hammer for effect. He looked into her eyes and she knew what he saw there. He raised his hands to shoulder height, lowered himself to his knees.
Romero was trying to sit up, a hand over his shoulder. His eyes fluttered. Slipping into shock, she thought. No exit wound. At that range, the bullet would have punched through tissue, bone and muscle, mushroomed somewhere inside.
She looked at the door, wondered how long it would take before someone came knocking.
Cavanaugh sensed her uncertainty. “What do you think you’re going to do?” he said. “Kill us? In here? How far you think you’ll get?”
She looked at him, knowing then what she would do, no anger in it. He saw her expression, her shift in balance, tried to pull back out of the way. She took two steps, raised her right foot, drove her boot heel into his face, all her weight behind it. She felt the nose give way, and he went over backward, body limp. He fell onto his side and lay still.
She went to Jorge, pointed the Ruger at his head. When he took his hand away, his left eye was red, already swelling shut. He raised a hand to ward her off.
“Get up,” she said. “Keep your hands away from your body.”
He got slowly to his feet. “You fucked up my eye.”
“Pick up the money,” she said.
He did as he was told. Romero was on his back now, eyes closed, but still breathing. She stayed clear of him, watched as Jorge shoveled bills back into the envelope.
“My gun, too,” she said. “And the magazine.”
“The what?”
“The clip.”
He got the Tomcat from the couch.
“In the envelope,” she said.
He dropped it in, the magazine after it.
“Put it on the chair,” she said. “Then back up, face the wall.”
He set the envelope down, raised his left hand back to his eye, didn’t move.
“The wall. Or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
“I don’t think you will, chica.”
Cavanaugh moaned, trembled. They both looked at him. The carpet around his face was red with blood.
“You’re in deep now, puta,” Jorge said. “That was my brother you shot. You better kill me, too. Because you know we’re gonna find you.”
“Turn around.”
When he did, she decocked
the Ruger, reversed it. No easy thing, knocking a man out with a gun. Just as likely to cause brain damage or death. But it couldn’t be helped.
“I’m telling you, chica…” he started, and she stepped forward, brought the butt of the Ruger down in a hard arc. He staggered, reached back to cover his head, but she got the second blow between his hands, drove him forward. With the third he lost his legs, fell against the wall, and slid down into a pile.
Time to move. She stepped around Cavanaugh, turned the briefcase over on the table. The bundle of dope. A .25 automatic with pearl grips. A small mirror and razor blade, to sample the coke if they’d gotten that far. But no more money.
She dropped the .25 into her right coat pocket, pushed the couch aside until she saw Romero’s gun, a Smith & Wesson automatic. She put it in the other pocket, felt its weight.
No time to check the rest of the suite. And no use, more than likely. Cavanaugh hadn’t come to pay what he’d owed, he’d come to deal.
She put the Ruger in with the .25, tucked the envelope under her arm. She went out into the empty hallway, pockets heavy with guns. The elevator was humming, the display numbers rising: EIGHT, NINE, TEN. The rattle of the car coming up.
She was calmer than she thought she’d be. She took the fire stairs to the eighth floor, went down the hall. Halfway along the corridor was a nook with a soda machine, icemaker, and a white flip-top trash can. She unloaded the .25, dropped it in the bin, did the same with Romero’s S&W and the Ruger. She kept the magazines, took an elevator down to the lobby.
There was a police car outside the front door, the rollers on but no one inside. The clerk at the reception desk looked worried. So they’d already gone up. Someone had called in the shot.
She went past the desk, and out into the gray day. There was a shuttle bus waiting at the curb, engine running, people inside. The door started to hiss closed.
She walked fast, stepped off the curb in front of the bus, waved. The tired-looking black man behind the wheel nodded. The door folded open again and she went up, took a seat in the back. As they pulled away, she saw another police car approach, lights flashing. It parked behind the first one.
There were six other people on the bus, but no one made eye contact with her on the five-minute ride to the airport. She thanked the driver, walked to the lot and got her car, headed south on the Turnpike, the envelope with the money and the .32 tucked under her seat.
Kings of Midnight Page 8