American Blood

by Ben Sanders

  “Some. That’s not a new word. You’ve known ‘some’ for ages.”

  “No, like … I learned some new words.”

  “Oh, right. I thought ‘some’ was the new word.”

  “No. It’s an old word.”

  She came out from under the sheet. “How come you’re here?”

  “I just came for a little visit.”

  “Did you see Juanita?”

  “Yes. I saw Juanita.”

  “She has a new cat.”

  “Huh. She didn’t tell me that. Have you had any more wiggly teeth?”

  “Yep. Wiggly and gone.” She grinned to flaunt the evidence: a gap front and center down the bottom.

  Marshall said, “Wow. Look at that. Tooth fairy wouldn’t have been pleased he had to pay up.”

  “Tooth fairy’s a girl.”

  “Yours might be. Mine was definitely a boy, though. Probably retired by now, I’d say.”

  She giggled. She said, “Do you miss me?”

  “Yes. Lots.”

  “Are you coming back for more visits?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I hope so.”

  From the doorway he heard, “Marshall has to go now, sweetie.”

  “Where do you have to go, Marshy?”

  “Oh. Just home.”

  “Why don’t you just stay here?”

  Right then, there were very few things he’d rather do.

  He said, “Because my bed will be sad.”

  She giggled again and raised her arms. “Good-bye hug?”

  He leaned down and hugged her, couldn’t help but think of Cyrus Bolt’s last embrace. Handling that slack-jawed corpse, shoving it in the car. God. And here he was with this kid.

  “See ya, Marshy.”

  “See you, sweetheart. Be good.”

  Sarah was leaning on the doorframe with her arms folded and he stepped past her into the hall and she trailed him back to the living room. He picked up the gun and slipped it in his belt. She stood watching and the blank expression was disapproval enough. She led him back to the entry, opened the door and held it for him, like coming out of county lockup.

  He paused on the step, trying to think of parting sentiments.

  She said, “Well. See you later.” She was fanning the door very gently.

  He felt he needed something more than just a bye. The phone call from that morning kept looping away, the guy laying out his threats. As soon as you hold someone dear then you stand to lose something.

  What would you do if someone hurt them?

  Standing there at the threshold he said, “Spoke to someone today. Just made me remember how much I miss you both.”

  He’d hoped she’d offer something back that he could cling to, but she didn’t answer. The way her mouth was set he could tell what she was thinking: too bad.

  He stepped outside. He said, “I’ll give you a call.”

  “See you, Marshall.”

  She closed the door.

  2010

  Lloyd came by. He had a key and let himself in the front, the Third Avenue entry. Marshall figured him for about thirty. He was like Tony minus twenty years and twenty pounds, the same sleek tailoring, more Wall Street than gangster.

  He came out back and saw Mikhail curled on the floor, blood leaking through his fingers, lips shining with it. He ran a hand through his hair, looked at Tony Asaro still seated at the table. The espresso was gone now.

  “Jesus, Dad, what happened?”

  Asaro said, “Vicki’s backup guy tried to pull, Marshall put him down.”

  “Shit. That must have been something.” Unfazed, trying to impress the old man.

  He took a step back from the table, looked over at Mikhail, trying to figure the blow-by-blow. Marshall was leaning on the doorframe, gun in hand, watching the front room. Defied belief they had a man here on the verge of dying, Tony Asaro sitting there like this was his living room. A calm and distant look in his eye, like reflecting on a pretty normal day.

  Lloyd said, “Where’s Vicki B.?”

  Asaro said, “He had somewhere else to be.”

  “Is he hurt?”

  “Yeah. Don’t touch that spoon.”

  “Oh, god.” He leaned in for a look, a hand on his midriff to stop his tie dangling. “Is that an eye?”

  Jimmy Wheels dropped his voice an octave, like the fight-night announcer: “Gets it on the first try.”

  The three of them laughed. Lloyd looked around, checking everyone was enjoying the moment, though he’d actually lost some color. “Marsh, you’re looking worried there. Chill.”

  Marshall glanced at him and then away, didn’t move. Pulling the trigger was bad enough, but humor while the vitals waned was verging on depravity.

  Lloyd came closer, the smile hanging in there, keeping it friendly. “Not a good look for a cop, is it? Shooting a guy like that.”

  Marshall didn’t answer.

  “Are you carrying your badge? Must be some sort of bad-luck omen or whatever. Killing someone while you got your silver on you.”

  The smile had gone. He had a light-switch personality, the smooth corporate side only there while he needed it. He said, “Should make you assume the position, pat you down for it.”

  Jimmy Wheels said, “Lloyd, come on.”

  Lloyd grinned and punched Marshall lightly. He stepped away, back in character. “No, you’re right. Things to do.”

  He went and stood over Mikhail and said, “What’s the plan?”

  Marshall said, “He needs a doctor.”

  Asaro ignored him. He said, “I’m going home. You three are going to take this guy home.”

  “Which is where?”

  “Brooklyn. Return-to-sender type thing.” He laughed. “Shit, imagine we had a stamp.”

  * * *

  Jimmy Wheels had a custom Escalade, blacked-out windows and a nice tan leather interior, modified controls with no foot pedals. They put Mikhail in back and headed out down Third Ave., Jimmy and Lloyd up front, Marshall and Jimmy’s chair in the seats behind.

  Jim wasn’t happy. “Wish he’d fucking tell me when he’s planning things to turn out like this. Like, I woulda at least brought some plastic or something. Gonna be shit all through the trunk now, fucking nightmare.”

  Lloyd had his color back now Mikhail was out of sight. He said, “Just use some bleach, give it a good clean.”

  “Yeah, you gotta be so careful though. Some of the CSI shit they can do these days, blow your mind. Eh, Marsh? Get blood out of anywhere, can’t they?”

  Marshall said, “They can.”

  “See. Nothing for it, you’ll just have to get me a new car.”

  Lloyd checked his cuff links. He said, “What, you angling for a new Ferrari or something?”

  “Yeah, Ferrari would actually be kinda good. SUV’s hard with the chair ’cause I gotta reach down so far to pick it up, you know.”

  “Just go to the gym more. Do some weights.”

  Jimmy took a right on Ninth, left on Broadway, southbound again. The old buildings through Noho tight on the curb, leaning in for a view. Marshall took a look over the back of the seat. The guy’s breathing quick and shallow, scalp white beneath his hair. The Beretta was silenced, so the bullet had lost its kick. It had gone in and hadn’t made it out.

  Lloyd saw him looking and said, “What do you reckon, Jim. What’s a good drop-off point?”

  “I don’t know. Somewhere. They’re Bensonhurst, aren’t they?”

  “Yeah, I don’t know. Could drop him off down on Eighty-sixth under the bridge or something.” He put his elbow up on the door, thrummed his lip slowly, like pondering something complicated. He said, “Reminds me there’s this big park somewhere, acres and acres, some kind of farm, but it’s just full of dead bodies. Put them all sorts of places, so you can see how they rot and decompose or whatever.”

  Jimmy cracked a small smile. “Is it a legit science thing, or is it some sorta wacko place?”

  “How’d you mean?”

>   “I don’t know. Like a necrophilia resort or something.”

  Lloyd laughed. He played with his window button, shot the glass up and down a couple inches. “Yeah, maybe it is. Have to check them out on Google, get a day pass for you, Jim.”

  “Or a family pass. Take your dad.”

  “Fuck you.”

  They cut west on Houston.

  Marshall said, “Let’s drop him at a hospital. We can just kick him out and run.”

  Lloyd said, “That’s the second time you’ve said that.”

  “Because he needs a doctor.”

  Lloyd turned in his seat, expression bored. “Look, man. Being on the take means you work for us. And when you’re working for us, and you’re riding in our car, you drop the protect-and-serve bullshit, okay? Just me and Jim you need to look after. Only thing you got to worry about is if some NYPD asshole pulls us over with this guy in back, how fast can you kill them.”

  Marshall didn’t answer.

  “Don’t just sit there doing the hard man thing, I never know if you’ve heard me.”

  Marshall looked back at him nice and steady. He had one arm laid along the sill, and he tapped a finger gently while he thought. The patient clockwork of it. Like each added second was an added tactic to some private scheme. He said, “Pretty fast.”

  “Pretty fast.” Lloyd shrugged one shoulder. “Means nothing.”

  “It might if you’re the one getting shot.”

  Lloyd didn’t answer.

  Marshall said, “We can try it, if you like.”

  Lloyd held the stare, propped an arm up on the back of his seat. He said, “I wouldn’t threaten me. That’d be pretty fucking stupid.” Still nice and smooth, taking a leaf from Tony’s book.

  “Why, you going to tell Dad?”

  Lloyd laughed. “Wouldn’t be Dad. Might be his cleaner, though. You heard of the Dallas Man?”

  Marshall said, “Can’t say I have.”

  “Yeah, well. My father uses him for the tough jobs. People just end up dead without knowing it. Pays to just behave yourself. Otherwise.” He clicked his fingers. “Sometimes shit just happens.”

  Marshall nodded slowly, looked out his window like he was slowly grasping the concept. He said, “Lloyd, if I killed you, I’d want you to know all about it.”

  Lloyd didn’t answer. No change in expression, he reached in his jacket and drew a snub-nose .38 and put it against Marshall’s forehead.

  Jimmy Wheels said, “Ooooo, shit, Lloyd. That’s not a good idea on the road.”

  Lloyd cocked the hammer. A faint metallic creaking as the cylinder stepped round, lining up a shell. “You got all the right lines, but you don’t know your place. That’s the difference between you and me.” He smiled. “I put a bullet in you, no one cares. Other way round, you probably can’t say the same.”

  With the gun right in his face it was hard not to look at it, but he forced himself to keep his eyes with Lloyd.

  Marshall said, “You kill me and you’re going to get pretty well acquainted with NYPD. Probably lockup, too.”

  Lloyd said, “Maybe. I didn’t think they’d be all that bothered by bent cops dying. Maybe they’d just think I’d done them a favor. Who knows.”

  Marshall didn’t answer.

  Lloyd said, “Not for you to have to worry about anyway. This sort of distance, you wouldn’t have much brain left.”

  They held the pose a few more seconds. The muzzle cool on his skin and the car gliding swiftly through the bright electric night in a trail of yellow cabs, and he and Lloyd swaying gently with the motion.

  Lloyd lowered the hammer and withdrew the gun. He looked at Marshall a moment longer and then he turned in his seat. “Let’s put it on record, Jim. Marsh doesn’t know his place.”

  Jimmy Wheels said, “It’s on the record, Lloyd.”

  Lloyd reached up and turned the mirror so he could see Marshall’s reflection. He touched his forehead. “Should get a tattoo of where the muzzle was, like one of those religious dots. Remind you who’s in charge.”

  * * *

  They followed West Street down into the Battery Tunnel and took 278 through the western edge of Brooklyn. Jimmy exited at Eighty-sixth and headed east toward Bensonhurst. They passed the Dyker Beach Golf Course on their right.

  Jimmy Wheels hiked a thumb. “Could drop him in here. Some bunkers pretty close, could even bury him. Imagine that: someone plays a shot out of the sand, take a bit too much, boom, the fuck is this?”

  Lloyd said, “I like the idea of the bridge.”

  “What, the West End line?”

  “Yeah, one that goes over Eighty-sixth.”

  “Whatever. Don’t say I don’t give good options though.”

  They could see it when they reached the light at Eighteenth Avenue. The huge steel bridgework of the train line where it curved out of the leftward distance to lurk on huge frames above the Eighty-sixth Street traffic. Driving now beneath the soot-grimed underbelly with its vaulted gussets and massive girder matrix all rust-streaked, and the rivets in studded rows without end. He remembered the shattering iron clatter of the D train rushing through in its great howl of wind, trash dancing in the eddies.

  Coming up to Twentieth Avenue, the light went red. Jimmy hit the gas and snuck through. No traffic coming toward them. Lloyd turned in his seat and checked the road behind, but it was all cars headed north/south on Twentieth.

  “Okay stop, stop, this’ll do.”

  Jimmy braked and the front of the car dipped hard as they slowed. Lloyd’s belt was already off. He got out and ran to the rear and opened the door and dragged Mikhail out onto the road. The thump as he landed, nothing else. Lloyd slammed the back door and then ran up front, jumped in, and they were off, the Escalade roaring through the gears, and in the rear window the guy was just a suited jumble with the huge bridge truss like some giant portal framed above him.

  Lloyd breathing hard with the rush, the car swerving slightly as Jimmy turned to check behind.

  Marshall glanced over the back of the seat again. All that blood, the guy can’t have been conscious. How long you could last with a nine-mil bullet in your gut, he didn’t know.

  They stopped at Twenty-first Street, traffic backed up at a red light.

  Lloyd, still short of wind, said, “Even better than that time you took out that guy over in Queens, Jim.”

  Jimmy Wheels said, “Oh, yeah. Forgot about that. In that old Lincoln, weren’t we?”

  Marshall ran a hand through his hair. They’d be talking shit all the way back to Manhattan. He wasn’t sure he could take it. He opened his door.

  Lloyd turned and looked at him. “Hey, what’re you doing?”

  “That’s enough for me for one night.”

  He slid out and threw his door closed, caught Lloyd calling out: “You just remember all that. Step out of line, I’ll turn you into roadkill on Eighty-sixth.” He wagged a finger, like he still had the .38. “You tell your uncle that, too. He owes us money, don’t want him ending up like this guy.”

  The light went green. Marshall stepped back as the Escalade took off. He could picture Lloyd watching him across his shoulder, Marshall’s figure receding as the black car bore him away.

  * * *

  He headed back west along Eighty-sixth to where they’d made the drop-off, called Ashcroft on his cell phone while he walked.

  He said, “I’ve got a problem. Asaro had a meeting tonight with Victor Bradlik, things got rough, I ended up shooting his backup guy.”

  “What? Bradlik’s backup guy?”

  “Yeah. I don’t think he’s dead, but he’s heading there.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Eighty-sixth Street in Bensonhurst.”

  “Shit, you got an ambulance there or something?”

  Up ahead: a stopped car and three people standing in the street, just silhouettes against the headlights.

  Please don’t be dead.

  Marshall said, “There’s one on the way.”
>
  “What happened?”

  Marshall leaned on the roller door of a Radio Shack and ran it down for him. He said, “Lee, I want to come in tomorrow. Get those Bureau guys, too. This is crazy.”

  “Marshall—”

  “No, I think I probably just killed a guy. I need to come in or I swear, next call I make is to Tony Asaro, tell him what the situation is. Jesus Christ, Lloyd almost patted me down for my wire.”

  “Marshall—”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Shut the fuck up and listen a minute. Give it two days. You need to just chill out, give it some time, act normal. Otherwise stuff comes apart.”

  Marshall said, “Tell them I want a meeting or I’m gone.”

  He hung up and kept walking.

  * * *

  He caught a D train at Twentieth and got off at Atlantic Avenue and waited for a Q train.

  Standing at the platform with his shoulder against a column and the tracks fading into the dark of the tunnel he looked down and saw a rat: coal-black fur in wet spikes sleek on its bloated form, the finger-thick tail dragging ropelike as it crawled across the rail. All that trash down there, begging for plunder.

  One A.M. now.

  When the train arrived he stood in the aisle of an empty car, no handhold, swaying on his feet with the motion. The clatter and rush of the crazy free-fall speed through tunnels, car rocking with the pace, the sudden quiet as they breezed through bright and empty stations.

  He got off at Parkside and walked up Flatbush Avenue. His uncle’s place was the corner unit of an old block of brownstones, the barber downstairs, accommodation on the floor above.

  Marshall stood at the front window and called him on the cell, looking at his reflection as he stood there, EDDIE’S in an arch of white letters on the glass, bordered by red, white, and blue.

  “Marsh, what’s up?”

  “I’m downstairs. Come let me in.”

  He clicked off. A minute’s wait and then Eddie was at the door, a ding of the bell as it opened. Marshall walked over and stepped inside.

  “I just saw Lloyd Asaro.”

  “Yeah. And?” He closed the door. No lights on, the pair of them just shadows.

  “And he says you owe them money.”

  “Why’d he tell you that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t like having debtors.”