by Blackie Noir
She grinned, “We establish some, the gun goes.”
“I’ll start trusting, as soon as the pistol starts disappearing.”
“I guess we’ve reached an impasse.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Tell me you’re not going to kill me.”
“Easy enough. I’m not going to kill you.”
“Now, here’s the hard part. Make me believe it.”
He thought about it. Why not? Stood, said, “OK. Be cool, don’t shoot me. I want a drink. That’s all, a drink. Let me get it, I’ll tell you a story.”
Gripping the gun with both hands, steadying her aim she said, “You come up with anything other than a bottle, I start shooting. I’ve run twenty rounds through this little beauty, she doesn’t jam, and she groups nicely at fifteen yards. I don’t want to kill you, but I will.”
He grinned, “You know what you’re doing. I feel safer already. We won’t have an accident, or a problem. You want a drink?”
“Coffee.”
“Right. I forgot. Coming up. Milk? Sugar?”
“Black.”
He prepped the coffee machine, turned it on. Pouring Beam for himself, he drank as he waited. When the machine uttered its finishing gurgles, he topped off his own drink, poured Sarah’s coffee. Placing the coffee on the spool table between them, he lit a cigarette, sat back, drank, kept watching her.
Returning his stare, she placed her pistol on the table, dug into her purse and came up with her cigarettes. She lit up, dragged deeply, placed the cigarette in the ashtray, and picked up the gun. Pointing it away from him, she released the clip, ejected the chambered round, loaded the round back into the clip. Slipping the clip back into the butt of her weapon, she set the safety, returned the pistol to her purse. Placing the purse on the floor, she met his eyes, took a hit on her smoke, shrugged, and said, “Well?”
He shook his head, “Shit. You’re easy.”
“All my life.”
“I make you a cup of coffee, you decide I’m OK. The logic escapes me.”
“No logic, just intuition.”
“You’re right to trust it, it’s on the money. I’m not going to hurt you, bet on it.”
“I just did. Now, what am I supposed to call you? Widowmaker’s too weird, and ‘hey you’ is too crude. So?”
“Iceman.”
“Iceman.” She laughed, said, “Why, cause you’re so fucking cool?”
“Cold would be more like it.”
“You’re making me wish I hadn’t put my gun away.”
“Forget it, relax.”
“Right. I relax, chill, I get to be called Icewoman?”
“You never know.”
She grinned, wishing that she already had her new bridgework in. She saw no hate or malice in this man, was beginning to like him, wished she could hit him with a real smile. He grinned back, said, “Before I get sidetracked, how did you find me?”
“No big thing. Our paths crossed, years ago. Actually, it was at the club. Ironic, huh?”
“Sorry, wasn’t me,” he shook his head, “first time I set foot in JuicyTown was the beginning of this month.”
“Back when I first saw you, it wasn’t JuicyTown, it was Doyle’s Dust Up.”
“Shit, Doyle’s. That was quite a while ago. Thing is, I don’t remember Doyle’s ever having any dancers.”
“I wasn’t dancing, cocktail waitress.”
He leaned forward, scrutinized her face, shrugged, “I’m not getting a thing. You’re certainly striking, kind of exotic, but I don’t remember you. Yet, you remembered me?”
“You made an impression. Smacked some asshole, was harassing a waitress, knocked him flat on a pooltable. He laid there twitching like he’d been electrocuted.”
“Then what? I started pounding my chest, screaming my name out to the whole bar?”
“Uh-uh. Actually, you were pretty cool about it. Couple of the bouncers came over, they knew you, ended up buying you a drink.”
“So, these guys told you my name?”
“No, another waitress told me who you were.”
“She knew me.”
“Uh-uh. She knew the two guys you were with, everybody in the bar did, seems like they were local celebrities.”
“Celebrities. I’m getting the drift now. How come you didn’t know who those two dudes were?”
“I was fresh in from the east coast, clueless. But, as I said you made an impression, so I asked about you.”
“Shit, what I remember of Doyle’s, guys were getting cold-cocked right and left, every night. I wouldn’t think punching-out some waitress hassling mutt would make that much of an impact.”
“It did. I was the waitress being hassled.”
He laughed, “So, I’ve been saving your ass for years. If you were so grateful, why didn’t you follow-up, after you knew who I was.”
“Back then I still had a few principles. Main one being, I didn’t mess with married men.”
The Iceman finished his whiskey, shook his head, “Hell, no wonder you found me, you’re a natural born fact finder, a sleuth. Regular blood-hound. Let me take it from here; the other night in the parking lot, you peeked, recognized me. Remembered that long ago night, and my bar-hopping companions. You went online, Googled the guys, and here you fucking are.”
Sarah grinned, “Close. It was a piece of cake. Your sharing a business address and phone number with the one of the guys made it a lock. Now, you owe me a story.”
“You’re right, I do. Let me give you something short, sour, and recent.” He told her of his anguish, an anguish born of children celebrating a murderer’s string of assassinations by wearing his name on their clothing. He told of an enormous weariness, one that dragged him ever downward, one that came often, as often as the realization that when all was tallied, his run of killings had accomplished nothing. Changed even less.
Sarah stood, walked to the small kitchen, freshened her coffee, brought back his bottle. She smoked, looked at him, shook her head, said, “Sorry, I can’t agree with that. Me of all people. No way. I’m here, alive, because of you. I’m taking another shot at life because of you. That’s worth something. Maybe only to me, but I’m all I got, so to me it’s every-fuckin-thing.”
Tears streamed, filling the lines coursing down her hollow cheeks, finding the corners of her mouth, the tip of her tongue flicked them away, Sarah continued, “That night, I don’t know if you’ve ever been in a place like that. I’m talking total terror, a fear I can’t even begin to describe. When I started running, I was fueled by fear. When I fell, that fear was compounded, cubed, all encompassing. No shit, I just can’t fucking put it into words. When they stomped my head into the gravel, broke out my teeth, they broke my spirit too. They grabbed my legs, dragging me away, laughing, talking shit about what they were gonna do to me, how many days they were gonna take to do it. At that point, I was nothing. Nothing but a ball of terror, wrapped in a dying body. Look at me, I’m pouring cold sweat just talking about it.”
He leaned forward, reached out, took her hand. Pulling it loose, she said, “No. You say what you did was worthless, accomplished nothing? Think again. You jumped into my fucking nightmare. When I heard your voice, when those scumbags dropped my legs, a little bit of hope flared up, like an ice-chip on a desert-fried man’s tongue. When you blew those cocksuckers away I was reborn. You want to negate every other thing you’ve done in your life, go ahead. But, I count for something, and don’t you forget it. That night alone, puts you in a very special place, at least to me. Shit, and you’re worried I’d rat you out? You paranoid, or just stupid?”
He shrugged, “Little of both.”
He stepped to the kitchen, came back with paper towels. She reached up for one, but was denied. The Iceman knelt by her side, slowly, tenderly, dried her tears. Giving her leg a gentle squeeze he stood, went back to his chair. To his whiskey and cigarettes. He looked at her, watched her shake her head, then she smiled, and said, “Shit, I’m
sorry. Sarah the drama queen. I didn’t mean to go off like that.”
His turn. He opened up, told her two tales of crushing loss. The first: ancient history, a sordid tale not only of loss, but of failure and shame as well. Of a bad man, making even badder decisions. Of arrogance, selfishness, and stupidity. The second: more recent, a simple story of loss and pain, complicated by a twisted attempt at self-therapy.
No doubt about it, the stories were appalling. Yet, Sarah found herself sympathetic, rather than repulsed. The Iceman was flawed, far from perfect, but Sarah knew he was considerably further from pure evil than he was from perfection. She said, “I’m not here to judge you; I don’t have the right, the desire, or the qualifications. Not to mention, where you’re concerned my objectivity is out the window.”
He lit a new cigarette, drank, gave Sarah a long look, said, “You won’t judge me. Fair enough. How about help? Will you help me?”
“How?”
“I’ve got one last bit of business to wrap up.”
“Widowmaker business?”
“Partially. There’s also a personal aspect involved, an important one. Not only is this target going to be more difficult, but I can’t afford to fail. Being the stakes are high, I could use your help.”
“Who do I have to kill?”
Expressionless, her face gave away nothing. Searching her eyes, he smiled, said, “Not a soul. Killing’s my end of it. You just get things rolling, I’ll do the heavy lifting.”
“Fine, but if things should get too heavy for you, don’t worry, I’ll pull more than my own weight.”
“I do believe you mean that.”
Sarah shrugged, “I owe you my life.”
He shook his head, “Hey, you’re absolved of any and all debts, as of right now. I trust you not to dime me. You’re free to go.”
“I thought you needed help.”
“I can do it alone, just a little trickier that way.”
“Tricky fucks things up. You said this one was important. Let’s work together, make it a lock.”
“Good. I’ve got the germ of a plan, we can fine tune it together, but not tonight. It’s late, got a place to stay?”
Retrieving her purse, Sarah stood, looked down at him, said, “I’ll manage.”
Rising, inclining his head toward the tiny couch, he said, “You’re welcome to stay here.”
Eyes on his, Sarah stepped into the Iceman. As their thighs and bellies made light contact, she moved her head to one side, laid her chest against his, found his ear and whispered, “I spend the night, it won’t be on no fucking couch.”
His hands found her ass, the small of her back. Gently at first, then with a fierceness she met, as well as welcomed, he drew her to him.
Two wrongs don’t make a right, but on that night two sorrows melded into joy.
Chapter Thirty
After thirty years Johnny Vance was at the point where he felt nothing on the job could surprise him. Still, his own reaction to Lonny Jones’ description of the Widowmaker had come as a shock. Generally slow and methodical, rarely impulsive, Vance’s response had been totally out of character. He’d suppressed evidence, released a key witness, and had finalized a decision he’d been pondering for the past five years, all in a matter of seconds.
Still astounded by his recent behavior, he’d hurriedly dragged his partner to an out of the way bar on East Anaheim St. Not a cop watering-hole, that was the last thing Vance needed at the moment, the Fade-Away was a lush’s haven. A joint where serious day-time drinkers pursued their mind-numbing vocation. Shadows, silence, and solitude were served up with each and every shot of rot-gut, mug of beer, glass of muscatel. A place swathed not only in sorrow, but in secrecy as well. A place perfectly suited to Vance’s present mood, as well as to his present needs.
Vance sipped his beer, watched Nadine’s face, hoping for a tell, some minute sign that would allow him to asses her true mood, her real feelings about what he had just dropped in her lap. Unfortunately, he hadn’t known her long enough to be aware of any tics, acute or chronic, that might put lie to the meaningless rap she was laying on him.
Her eyes calm, face smooth, just the hint of a grin curling one corner of her mouth, Nadine said, “C’mon Vance, you’re shitting me. Right?”
“Wish I were, kid. Wish I were. I may be an asshole, but I wouldn’t joke about something like that.”
Nadine drank, shook her head, “Well then, I’d have to say you’re overreacting.”
Vance lit up, blew smoke into the dark, “How about this . . . you’re under-reacting.”
“To what? Some pathetic psycho whispers sweet-nothings in your ear, and you, taking this nut at face value, turn into Chicken Little and try to convince me that the sky is falling. Get a fucking grip. You’re turning into an alarmist.”
“Me, an alarmist? No way. You, in deep denial? Looks that way to me. Far as I’m concerned, Lonny’s description was rock-solid.”
“Really.”
Vance nodded, Nadine said, “OK. Got your piece where you can pull it quick?”
Frowning, Vance said, “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Your weapon, got easy access?”
“Always. Now, make sense.”
“Well, you’ve got so much faith in Loony Lonny’s description of the Widowmaker, don’t look now but I do believe that’s him, at the near end of the bar. It’s a little dark, but check it out. Big dude. Shaved head. Buffed too, look at those arms. Tats too. I can’t make them out, but then Lonny, that star witness of yours, he was a bit vague on the tattoos himself. Going by that ‘rock-solid’ description of Lonny’s I’d say the guy at the bar is our boy. Should we call for back-up? Try to get the cuffs on him ourselves? Hey, he’s the Widowmaker, let’s just pull our pieces, blow his ass away from here. Be on the safe side.”
Vance lit another cigarette, his smile tight, lupine, anything but friendly. He said, “You really checked that guy out, you’d have seen he ain’t half as old as the man in our description.”
“Our description? Please, don’t include me in that elite circle encompassing you and your pal, Loopy Lonny.
“You know Nadine, this is a side of you I’ve never seen. Can’t say I care for it much.”
“I’m so sorry, Vance. But, truth is I don’t give a fuck. Truth is, I don’t care for you spiriting me away to this den of dipsomaniacs, just to hit me with the stupidest allegation I’ve ever heard.”
Vance sighed, took off his hat, placed it on the booth’s seat. After running his fingers through his sparse hair, he held up his hands in surrender, “I’m sorry, this isn’t what I wanted. We’re loosing control here, both of us. We’re partners, let’s keep that in mind, work it out like partners. Together we’re strong, at odds we’re ineffective, self-destructive as well.”
“I’m sorry too. But seriously, that description? Hundreds of guys, from Stone Cold Steve Austin to our pal at the bar, fit it.”
“In that particular age group?”
“OK, that cuts it down to dozens.”
“What about the pickup truck?”
Nadine laughed, “C’mon Vance, even you’ve got to see the humor in that. Make you a bet, right now. More than half the vehicles in the parking lot of this dive are pickups, bet?”
“Look, feel free to think what you want. I only told you this out of consideration, for you, and for your family. You’re the only one knows what Lonny told me. I got a real shitty feeling about where this is going, that’s why I’m giving you a heads-up. I play my hunches.”
Nadine frowned, “You do? How’s your track record?”
“If I could show you, statistically, you wouldn’t be making light of my suspicions.”
“Sum it up, one word.”
“Uncanny.”
“So, saying, based on that, I give your theory some credence, what do you think I should do?”
“Talk to Vassily.”
“Do you think that’s wise?”
“Fuck wise.
The man’s your father. You need to know, and you need to know first.”
“What about you? It’s your hunch.”
“I told you, I’ll follow it till it proves out to my satisfaction. If I’m right, and I hope to God I’m not, I’ll look the other way, drop it.”
“Just like that.”
“Just like that. Turn in my papers, pull the plug, retire. Nobody will ever know.”
“Nobody but me.”
Vance shook his head, “You won’t know shit, unless you find it on your own. I’ll pursue my angle alone, from my end. Your part, the direct approach. You’re gonna have to meet Vassily head on, confront him.”
“I don’t know if I can do that.”
“You love him?”
“Heart and soul.”
“Then you owe it to him.”
“You just laid a ton of shit on me, you prick.”
Vance shrugged, put on his hat, “That I did. Tell me true, do you think there was a better way? Hell honey, I tried, but I sure as shit couldn’t think of one.”
Nadine said, “It’s OK Vance, it was a no win situation for you, let’s hope it doesn’t turn out that way for all of us.” She gathered her handbag, and rose to leave.
#
Nadine tried to reach Vassily on her cell. He wasn’t at home, and the fact that he bore such an utter disdain for cell-phones, and those he believed were addicted to them, that he refused to own one, eliminated that option for reaching him. She tried, unsuccessfully, to reach him at Roy’s home, and again at Roy’s shop. Calling Bill’s number, she spoke briefly with Carol, who had no knowledge of Vassily’s whereabouts.
Abandoning her search temporarily, she stopped at a market, did some quick shopping for essentials, including cat food, then headed for home. After stowing her groceries, she fed Puddin, then headed for her answering machine. The LED display indicated seven messages. The first three were recorded pitches from telemarketers. Insanity: machines sending recorded messages to other machines whose function was to re-record said message, store it until such a time when an actual living entity would play only a few words and then delete the message. The unrelenting progress of man.