“Fine. Ah, anything interesting in the paper? Like there.” He pointed a finger at the photo of the burned out railcar and charred truck body. “Two days after the fire at the rail yard and everyone is still talking about it. The cops can’t find the suspects, but I think I read a story somewhere that the police think six million dollars of coke blew up.”
“Interesting. And what have you heard from more reliable sources than newspaper reporters?”
“Oh, like from Roy? He’s still healing, but is well enough to sit in a classroom. Back in Kansas City training with the DEA. He called last night.” Harry looked me in the eye. “He said he knows you two were involved in cleaning up that drug shipment.”
“How did he figure that?”
“Is he right?”
I shrugged. “When is he coming home?”
“He didn’t say. The physical therapist told him the edge of his bullet-proof vest took some of the impact and saved his life. Another couple of months of working out and he’ll be good to go. The therapist told him to quit sticking his nose in dangerous places.” Harry roared a laugh at that. “But he sure saved our bacon at the Pullman, didn’t he?. Say, do you remember the wino who moved into the room next to yours?”
“Never met him, but I know who you’re talking about.”
“Well, I just saw him collecting cans and hefting a black plastic garbage bag about a mile down the road from here. He sure as hell gets around.”
Lori set her coffee mug on the table in front of her. “Really? Long way from the goddamn Pullman unless he got a ride . . .” She looked thoughtful. “Think he could be one of Harpies spies?”
I groaned. “Like she’s got somebody on every street in the whole goddamn city and in the suburbs, too?”
“Don’t bite my head off, asshole. We’re safe from the lowlife winos here, right?”
Above Harry’s head I checked the green lights on the alarm control panel. Then I looked through the open door of the small room off the kitchen. The video monitors were all on and clear.
Harry finished off his beer. “I just wanted to pass along Roy’s greetings. Now, I’ve got to head back to church. The girls have a softball game tonight. I’d invite you, but I know you’ll be staying home. Maybe you’re recovered enough from setting fires to do something more than read the paper and argue, huh?”
Lori flipped him off and he laughed.
I walked him to his Ford station wagon, only half listening to a rambling joke. He rested his chin on the artificial hand holding the top door edge open, laughing at something I hadn’t even registered.
Tires squealed and an all-too familiar black Lincoln shot down the street then slammed to a stop at the entrance to my long drive. A heartbeat later a man in ragged clothing exited the near side, a bulky gun in hand. I rammed Harry backward toward the seat of his car, but his wide shoulders blocked his descent. My momentum had me sliding down to my knees at his feet.
A tat-tat-tat of automatic gunfire pinged the car. I rolled under the open door as bullets buzzed and thudded. Harry slid to the pavement where I had been moments before. I reached for a leg and tried to pull his heavy ass to cover.
“Belly crawl this way, Harry!” I screamed at him.
The shooting stopped and tires again squealed. Peeking around the door, I saw the car speeding away and Dr. Hartford running the half block toward my house. Behind me, my front door crashed open. I pulled myself up by holding onto the bullet-riddled car door. Harry sprawled below me, blood oozing from a dozen holes in his chest and stomach. The pitted and cratered face had frozen in surprise. His open eyes stared directly up into the summer sun.
“Goddamn it, Harry. Don’t play games.” I dropped to my knees to tug at his shoulders. “Get up!”
Then my hands pressed on one wound after another as if I could plug the holes just by pushing on them. A scream stopped me. I looked over my shoulder into Lori’s tear-filled eyes.
“Is─is he . . . . “
“No! You tell him not to die.” Chills shook me as I looked back at the blood staining his church tie. “I’m tired of dead people and blood. You’re alive, Harry Piston! You hear me?”
Hartford knelt beside me. I concentrated on the expert fingers pressing into Harry’s thick neck. As my head came up I stared into the medic’s sad eyes. He gently shook his head once. When I stumbled to my feet, Lori’s arms encircled my waist and she pressed her living warmth against me. We sobbed together.
Beyond the ringing in my ears, sirens approached. Colors flashed as the doctor settled the afghan from my couch over Harry. My legs wobbled as Lori led me back into my safe house.
In the middle of my living room, I stared at my hands covered in Harry’s blood. Hartford pushed me down on the couch. Lori cried on my shoulder as we sat side by side. The silent doctor used a wet kitchen towel to wash my hands. I wanted them clean but also didn’t. Staring at my two hands, whole, alive, flexing, I thought of Harry’s artificial hand and folded over in sobs again.
The police questioning was a blur. I refused Doc’s pills and Lori’s food, alcohol and nearness. At some time I picked up a sketch pad and set to work capturing every memory of Harry I could come up with. I didn’t sleep or shower. I just drew. Lori set a stack of four pads and my art box beside me and went back to her house.
* * *
Ann hadn’t wanted the man to film the funeral. When Lori told her we couldn’t be there, she gave in. Everyone advised us the mourners would be safer if Lori and I didn’t appear in person.
After the DVD of Harry’s funeral finished, I pushed play for the tenth time. The funeral had been two days ago. I wanted to memorize everything said. I had to watch the people crying and let my own tears fall. The faces of Harry’s daughters blurred as I again felt their grief knife through me as I deserved for getting their father killed. Every time I played the recording, I closed my eyes at the end and only heard the unknown priest pronounce the final blessing.
“Fr. Manning should have fucking been there,” I whispered.
Beeping from the security system disrupted my train of thought. The path alarm flashed. I changed the TV to display the multiple camera views. Lori moved across the small square showing the path to her house. A second camera picked her up crossing my patio onto the deck and passing the hot tub. The back door camera focused on her keying in my security code.
Hearing the door open, I called out, “I’m in the living room.”
“Want a beer?”
“Yeah.”
I stretched my feet onto the coffee table and turned off the TV. A cold green bottle filled my hand. I looked into her red eyes. “Still crying?”
“Like you aren’t?”
She settled beside me and rested her right arm on my leg, letting go only long enough to swipe at the foam her beer left on her lip. Those big brown eyes narrowed on me. “You about ready to kick some ass?”
I took a long drink then nodded. “Where do you think we should start?”
“Fox called. He wants to wipe out another Short Time Gas and Fill. Someone there recruited two more of his girls. The cops have started following him and he’s afraid they’re going to bust him for the drug trafficking. I told him we could take care of the place for him.”
My mouthful of beer went down slowly. “Maybe this time we can get some information from the manager before we blow his place up?”
“We can try.”
Placing the bottom of the cold bottle on my bare leg near the hem of my shorts, I mumbled, “Maybe we should wait a few days. The cops have been by every day while investigating . . . the shooting.”
“If they can’t make appointments, screw them.”
Chapter 13
I rubbed my returning beard. It had grown enough to cover the thanks-to-Kobo scar along my jaw. Adjusting my weight on the canvas stool, I studied a plump, middle-aged lady inspecting one of my paintings a few feet away. I wondered if she would ask me the price.
A welcome breeze moved the humid ai
r in the old, fruit market warehouse. The awning above the storefront rattled. The pencil and charcoal drawings stacked in the vertical holder ruffled until I placed a tarp over them. A car passed on the brick street. The rippling tire noises drowned out the weather report coming from my portable radio.
After the prospective buyer stood up, she still had the appearance of leaning forward, a habit of people with a lifetime of poor posture. The woman had made a bad attempt at building a French twist with her thick, fading red hair. The size tabs stuck out at the neck of her too short blouse and the elastic waistband of her too tight shorts. I assumed she wanted people to know she shopped at discount stores. Her Mexican-made flats cut into her swollen feet.
Finally, she held up an eight-by-ten oil without a frame. “Mister, how much for this one?”
I looked up at the landscape of the lake with several sailboats. “Six hundred.”
“For this?. You think the artist would lower the price?”
“I don’t think so, ma’am. Mr. Norris is a tight-wad and was very firm when he priced his work.”
“I don’t understand. The price of the naked lady standing is a hundred dollars cheaper and it’s on a bigger piece of canvas.”
“It takes more paint to do a landscape.”
She held the landscape next to the nude, looked back and forth, squinted closer then shook her head.
I couldn’t control my smile. “Ma’am? I’m just joking. Do you like that painting, the lake one, I mean?”
She sighed, her expression turning soft. ”It would look lovely in my dining room.”
“You can have it.”
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Take it. It’s yours. Free.”
“But . . . but what would Mr. Norris say?”
“He can be an asshole at times, but he’ll understand.”
A Neil Diamond song serenaded us as she held her new treasure and scuffed toward the sidewalk. A loud ripple of fast tires drowned out Neil. A black Lincoln sped down the street. The woman continued to study the landscape as she started across the intersection.
Leaping to my feet, I ran out of the warehouse yelling, “Watch out!”
The rattle of automatic fire erupted close behind me. Both my feet and heart picked up speed. Not thinking of anything but escape, I scooped up the startled 200-plus pound woman and kept going with her screaming in my face. My strength gave out at the curb and we went down onto the bricks with me on top.
I glanced up as the black vehicle screeched around the corner.
“My God! Get off me.”
I stumbled to my feet and pulled her up by one hand, no small feat. I wasn’t looking at her but scanning the streets in every direction looking for the car’s possible return.
“I-I’m sorry, ma’am, but it seems someone was shooting. Are you alright?”
She held her painting tightly against her chest. “Those were shots? Where are the police? Someone should call.”
Agitated pedestrians and shoppers milled around in the area, some angry, some fearful. Like me, most were looking up and down the streets. I saw more than one cell phone in use.
“I’m sure someone has called. Come back to the warehouse. It may be safer off the street.” Or maybe not.
“Oh, dear,” she said as we entered. “Look at all these paintings. They’re all ruined. I’m sure Mr. Norris won’t like that.”
I blew out a long breath and stared at the torn and punctured canvases around me. No, Mr. Norris does not like it. Not one damn bit.
Moments later the first of the marked cars arrived. A young, tall, skinny police officer glanced over the ruined artwork and scattered papers. Resting a hand on the handle of his holstered gun, he said, “I received a radio call of a shooting.”
“Yeah. Someone shot up my paintings.”
He raised his eyebrows. “No one hurt?”
“Just the paintings and the artist’s pride.”
His eyes narrowed. “You have a permit to sell here?”
“Wouldn’t you be more interested in the description of the suspects?”
He pushed the brim of his hat back. “Don’t get smart with me. What happened here?”
“A black car—I’m pretty sure it was a Lincoln—drove by and someone fired automatic weapons out a window.”
“Did you see anything, ma’am?”
My frightened patron still held my painting to her ample chest. “No. I think this gentleman saved my life. Carried me across the street. At a run.”
The officer glanced down at her then frowned doubtfully at me. “Okay. And what’s your name, sir?”
“Bob Norris.”
The lady gasped. “You . . . you’re the artist?” She loosed one hand to wave at the handbills scattered on the floor. “Your picture. You look much younger. Why would anyone . . . You must be devastated.”
The officer cleared his throat. “Lot of talk at the station about you and your, er, troubles. Ever thought about hiring private security to follow you around?”
“Actually, my bodyguard left thirty minutes ago. She went to get a bite to eat at the Wings and Gizzards.”
He rubbed a hand across his mouth. “Would that be a Miss Lori Saint?”
“Yes.” A chill ran down my back. “Is there a problem?”
“She’s being interviewed at the station. Someone shot up the entrance of Wings and Gizzards right after she entered. One of the other customers was seriously wounded.”
* * *
Lori and I sat at the round table in the back corner of Jake’s. I blew gently over the spoon before taking a bite of the spicy hot chili. I rolled it around in my mouth before swallowing. About two years ago, Harry, you told me not to order the chili because it would eat right through my gut. You warned I would be shitting blood for a week. Here’s to you, Harry.
Lori’s growl pulled me from my morbid thoughts. “You haven’t heard a word I said.”
I glanced at her. “Sorry.”
“I was asking about your artwork. Can you save any of it?”
“Most of the oils were destroyed. Hommel and Twain, the two critics were there about thirty minutes before the shooting. They took pictures of the pieces they liked. The review will be in Art of Nebraska next month. At least some will be preserved.”
She got that pissed-off-at-me look. Again. “Pictures, huh?” she snapped.
I stopped eating my chili, my gut telling me to pay attention. “Yes. A few. Why?”
“I don’t think I’m comfortable having my goddamn naked body in a magazine.”
“It’s not a girlie publication.”
“I don’t care, Bob,” she said between clinched teeth.
“Lori, it’s art—”
“Shut up. Here comes Fox.”
The big man took the seat facing me. His two bodyguards sat at the next table. The waitress placed a glass of milk in front of him. His Adam’s apple moved up and down as he gulped half of it. Wiping his upper lip with a paper napkin, he said, “You two are dead.”
The hairs on the back of my neck went up. “Lori, pinch me because I don’t think so.”
“Not funny, Norris. Harpies ain’t going to let you two slip by her. She wants you dead.”
“Tell me something I don’t know, like where I can find the bitch.”
“If I knew that, she would’ve been buried in concrete days ago. But, I have been thinking. You remember Nelson who got shot at Penny’s funeral?”
Lori sat forward. I settled a hand on her arm.
“How could I forget?”
Fox belched and again wiped his mouth with the napkin. “The cops leaked to the newspapers that he had been after me. My boys said he was aiming his gun your way.”
“If that’s true, maybe we should check Bison Insurance. That’s where he worked.”
“No. I think you and Lori should take the first flight to South America and hide in the fucking jungle.”
Lori laughed. “You think Bob would do that? He doesn’t kn
ow how to give up.”
Fox took another sip. “The bodies are piling up. I’m just warn—”
A bright light at the front window blinded me just before the explosion numbed my senses. My body pressed against the wall as if someone nailed me there then I dropped to the floor. I reached out blindly. My fingers touched soft skin, a face. Lori’s face. I yelled, “Lori! Lori, answer me!”
Her voice echoed as if from inside a cave. “I’m okay. What about you?”
I turned my head side to side but everything looked dim and formless with just shadows shifting. “Goddamnit, I can’t see. Shadows moving around me. I can’t make out what they are.”
“What in hell happened?” Lori spoke close to my ear, her hand wiping at my face.
From deeper in the cave, Fox shouted, “They blew up my goddamn car.”
Lori kissed my face then sighed, “That’s good. I thought they were making another batch of that fucking chili.”
My fingers pressed against my eyelids “You’re making jokes while I can’t see? I’m an artist who can’t see!”
Lori coughed then gave me a hard hug. “Calm down, Fr. Dumb Ass. I don’t think you’re blind. It’s just goddamn smoky in here. I can’t see much myself. I’ll help you to the door.”
We got to our feet, Lori holding me by the waist. Caution slowed our steps forward. It still felt like we roamed through dense fog, even with our coughing. My shoes crunched on broken glass and bumped wood. The closer we got to the front, the lighter the fog became. Beyond the destroyed entrance of the bar-and-grill, everything brightened with fewer shadows, but still nothing distinct. Lori led me around the metal littering the sidewalk. I stopped her to deep breathe and hold my head a moment. City traffic sounds returned. I blinked and made out the old buildings around us. They looked like they had been drawn in dark ink and washed watercolor.
At the alley beside the building where we had parked, Lori calmly urged me to the passenger’s side of my Ferrari. I slid into the leather seat and focused on the dash, relieved to identify its details. I was even more relieved to turn and see the details of Lori’s beautiful porcelain face.
I dug the keys from my pocket and held them out to her. “We better hurry.”
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