by J. Palma
"Dammit. That was mine."
"You wouldn't have hit it any way."
The men finished three bottles of wine earlier playing gin rummy. The alcohol had loosened their tongues and their judgment.
Albert aimed indiscriminately at the VW and pulled the trigger. The birdshot ripping through corroded metal, sounded like a snare drum. He lowered his rifle and asked, "You think you could do it?"
Smiling, the cook pumped the Mossberg. He raised the shotgun, pressed his cheekbone against the stock. "Oh, I know I could." He fired.
The driver said, "Is that right? Get a load of this guy. He's a regular tough guy."
Albert said, "I think this is a non-issue. Dot said Lucina was headed towards Canada. She'll get nabbed trying to cross the border. But that reward would have been nice."
The cook lowered the shotgun and said, "And who got the reward bumped up from fifty thousand to a hundred thousand?"
There was always an implied pecking order between the three of them. The cook saw himself as indispensable. So did Albert. Both agreed that the driver was at the bottom, as his provided services were not only inessential but the easiest to replace or even do without. Obviously, this incensed the driver from time to time and this was one of those times.
The driver said, "What is it you want?"
The cook let his gun dip and said, "Just a little gratitude would be nice." He fired into the VW underside at nothing in particular.
Albert, always the mediator, stepped in and said, "What's the point? You're squabbling over something that won't happen. Would you two just relax?"
The cook took a seat on a log positioned for just such a purpose, his Mossberg across his lap. "My ex is taking me to the cleaners. Have I told you that? The child support payments are killing me. She asked for six hundred more last month. She said the youngest needed a new bed. Then I go over there and I see she's spending the money on herself, and the kids are running around like slobs. Dirty, with snot coming out of their noses. And I asked her, where the hell is the bed I bought?"
The driver said, "No one asked you to have four kids."
"At this rate, I'll be homeless in three years. She's wiping me out. That reward money would have helped. I hope Lucina does come here. I could use the money."
"What would you do with your imaginary share?" Albert asked the driver.
"I dunno? I never thought about it really. I'm not sure I could do it to be honest."
Albert paused. "I don't think I could either."
The cook said, "You two are a couple of first-class pussies. You know that? Bona-fide pussies."
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
"ARE YOU SURE you want to go through with that other thing?" Rizzo approached Dot with the guile of a hyena. His eyebrows raised, his nose in the air, as though sensing a fresh carcass.
She raised a finger to her lips, frowning.
Drawing close to her side, Rizzo asked, "Is there some place we can talk, privately?" Unsurprised by the request, Dot wordlessly gestured upstairs. Quietly, he followed her up a set of stairs then down a long wood paneled corridor and into a guest bedroom. She locked the door behind them.
"Are you sure you want to go through with this?"
"You must think I'm cold. Heartless. An ice queen?" She moved to the window, her eyes lingered at the landscape outside. She savored the moment, of being at the helm of her future.
Rizzo didn't answer.
"When I was a sophomore at Princeton, I had to leave my education behind. My father was an uneducated man who started his career as a janitor and nearly twenty years later, found himself behind a great big mahogany desk in middle management for the same company. But then he lost his job. A corporate buy-out left him and hundreds like him unemployed. It was all about improving shareholder value. Too young to retire and too old to find a new career, and with no real skills, he was doomed. But he still had this blind loyalty to the company and reverence for their executives, as if they were chosen by God. The way he spoke about them! What a fool. After a year of looking for a new job and with his severance nearly depleted, he went back to pushing a broom.
"It was my mother who broke the news to me and I am certain she enjoyed watching me suffer. I took a year off and worked in retail to help with the bills. I would eventually earn my degree from a state school with a night program. A year after I graduated, we lost our house from a second mortgage that my father, unbeknownst to me, took out to help pay for my Princeton tuition.
"After college, with my freshly minted degree in finance, the only jobs I could find were answering the phone. Secretary-type work. It was a different time and it wasn't even that long ago. I lived in Staten Island with my parents, took the ferry in. Pretty boring existence. Two weeks of vacation a year. Happy hours after work. My life sort of on autopilot, condemned to think of what could have been. Imagine my horror realizing each day would be the same for the next twenty, thirty years.
"Then I met Will. At the time, he was working as a trader. This was before he got into sales. He was funny, outgoing, and of course, he had the family name and their money. But he'd tell you he wasn't rich. I guess it's all relative right? He was a man who went through life never trying to impress anyone. He didn't have to. He had this casual indifference common to people who had his upbringing. I started spending quite a lot of time with him. Dinners at the best restaurants. Weekends on their family boat. Summers in Nantucket. Imagine going into any store and being able to buy whatever you wanted without looking at the tag. Those times seemed like a fairytale."
"Or a bad Ralph Lauren commercial,” Rizzo said “I'm imagining a lot of khakis and polos."
She ignored him and continued, "But even then, Will didn't quite fit into that scene. He wore his hair long and had a small hoop earring. He didn't talk like them or like the same things. He didn't care. Maybe that's why he liked me so much. We both felt like we didn't fit in."
"I did everything in my power to seduce him and it worked. I taught him to stand up to his brother and father. I was the first person to make him feel good about himself. That's probably why he married me. We wed almost a year to the day from our first date. He said I wasn't like the other girls. He said my working-class background turned him on. Can you believe that? But I learned to love him." Without bitterness, she repeated, "I learned to love him."
She continued, "And I learned to become one of them. To talk like them. To dress like them. I even figured out how to think like them. To share the same view as them. To laugh at their jokes. To be cruel like them."
"Meaning what?" Rizzo asked.
"The rich are ruthless in protecting what is theirs and what they want. When you asked if I'm ready to go through with it, my entire life has been preparing for this moment. So yes, please go through with that other thing. I'm discussing this with you as a courtesy. I want you to understand that when I have committed to a decision it is final."
"You gotta taste of the good life and you'll do…"
"What is necessary." Dot finished Rizzo’s sentence.
Dot possessed an unremarkable family surname and working-class roots which prevented her from establishing a toehold in New York's wealthy strata, despite her married name. She would never appear in the society pages. She would never be invited to the right parties. Membership in social clubs would always remain just out of reach. But when the Howell fortune was officially hers, they would be forced to recognize her place despite any grievance of her lack of a purebred lineage. Ever since she struck on this plan, her life had been moving towards this day. There was no turning back.
"Is that what this is about?” Rizzo said. “I can respect that. Obscene amounts of money trumps everything right?"
Her attention returned outside, as if something was there. The plot, she had decided, must be expanded to include the removal of her staff. After the nanny and the boy were taken care of, the staff would be eliminated as well. The thought had occurred to her after Rizzo first arrived. She had pulled him aside afte
r Will went in search for more booze and shared her intention. Rizzo said he had to think about it. Now, he was ready to discuss her additional request further.
"Killing off five people is a big task. A big fucking task. This wasn't part of the original plan."
"Well, it is now."
"I'm thinking this is going to cost triple the original number."
"Fine."
The air was still and humid, and Dot thought she detected the smell of mildew. She opened the windows and wondered if the other unoccupied guest rooms also bore the same odor.
Rizzo started for the door and as his hand touched the doorknob he said, "You want to know what I think?"
"Not particularly."
"I think you married the wrong brother."
She took a hard look at him as he left the room. Despite his hair worked into a pompadour, she found him good looking and liked his easy charisma. She imagined him working that hair to new heights each morning, then slapping on Old Spice. She didn't care for his hair, but he didn't seem as mean as the other one they called Fat Mikey. For a few moments, she hoped she made him understand that the specter of poverty was far greater than death.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
LUCINA LEFT THE Bronco three miles outside of Andes and followed a stream that ran below-grade alongside the only road into town. It was a pleasant walk beneath leafy trees and along the bank of a babbling stream. The stream, six feet below the road grade, provided cover from passing cars. Bathroom breaks delayed their travel time. Charles peed into the stream, proud of his arc. Lucina squatted behind a tree. She made Charles promise not to look.
Two hours later they came to the edge of what can only be described as downtown Andes. The stream disappeared into a drainage pipe that ran under the town’s main drag. There wasn't much: a general store that, from the looks of the signs taped in the windows, sold mostly hunting and fishing supplies; a post office; an antique shop; a bed and breakfast; and a solitary diner simply named Andes Kitchen.
But there was menace in the stillness of the small town. Lucina and Charles remained in hiding on the forest edge, listening to the babbling stream and watching the occasional car pass. After two hours of Lucina studying the cars as they pulled in to the various stores, did their business and left, she and the boy left their cover, crossed the road and entered the Andes Kitchen.
At the counter, a couple sat bickering. Another group sat in a booth in the back. Beside them, a man sat solo in a booth for two, his back to the kitchen. He held the paper such that only the top of his bowler hat was visible. Dolly Parton played on the jukebox. Lucina and Charles seated themselves in a cherry red vinyl booth with a view of the road and the small dirt parking lot. They pulled out plastic menus from a metal holder that also housed the condiments and artificial coffee sweetener. Lucina ordered a hamburger, fries, and a Coke. Charles ordered a strawberry milkshake, grilled cheese, and onion rings.
The waitress returned a few minutes later with their beverages.
Lucina said, "You know where the Skyline Ridge is?"
"What are you looking for?"
"The Howell cabin. Do you know the Howells?"
"Sure do. A Howell has been coming through these doors for over fifty years. Why, Frank spent the morning after his bachelor party here. So sad about what happened to him and the Missus."
"We're visiting Dorothy."
"I can't say I like that woman. They've been staying up there for…gotta be two weeks now? Been coming down here getting take-out for most their meals. You make a right out of here and go about a half-mile and take your first right. It's easy to miss because there ain't no sign. Just a steep dirt road. Practically goes straight up. It's a good thing you asked. The sign got stolen years ago and still hasn't been replaced. Like I was saying, you go up Skyline Ridge, and they're on the left. Can't miss it." The waitress returned to the kitchen.
"This is a terrible idea," Lucina said, her hand on her drink. She sipped her Coke with a straw. What was she going to do? She had a handgun and her terrible rage, but that wasn't enough. She didn't care if the waitress recognized her or Charles from the news. What would Dot say to the police arriving at her door?
"What are we going to do?"
"I still have the keys to the truck." Drive forever, she told herself. Drive forever. The couple at the counter got up and left. Lucina watched their argument progress from the diner to the car and then the car drove away.
Charles seemed to brighten at the idea of an endless escape. They both sat in silence for some time.
The food came on a large serving tray, which the waitress skillfully unloaded, pushing their plates before them.
After Lucina finished her food, she went to the restroom. She let the faucet run until the water ran hot. She splashed water on her face. Invigorated, she returned, confident about her new plan. Let's cut and run out of here and never look back, she was about to say. Drive forever. Get lost in America. A giant country with an octopus of blacktopped roads stretching from one coast to the other. They could disappear, become other people, and drive until they reached the Pacific Ocean.
"Charles?" She stood in the near-empty dining room.
But Charles was nowhere. She looked under the table and found her bag. Inside, the gun was still there. Looking out the diner window, she found Charles outside. But he wasn't alone.
A familiar shaped man in a hat and a sleeveless shirt escorted Charles into a gray Audi parked on the shoulder across the road.
She bit her lip until it hurt. She watched the man usher the boy into the car with a rolled-up newspaper like he was a goddamned dog. Fat Mikey. Perspiration raked her brow. He had been sitting in the diner the entire time, watching them, enjoying what he saw most likely. Waiting like a spider on a web. She cursed herself for letting her guard down.
"Goddamn you to hell," she said.
Standing in the door, she watched the car pull a screeching U-turn and head in the direction of Skyline Ridge. Behind her eyes, the flame of revenge relit. Almost snuffed out by hope and dreams, her anger was now fully stoked into an inferno. The boy had been like a child to her, and although she could never be his mother, she could never orphan him to face his fate alone.
Through the passenger side window filmed with dust, Fat Mikey smirked at Lucina looming in the diner doorway. She was just standing there, powerless, looking dumb and frustrated. His eyes narrowed on her and his smirk disappeared as the car pulled away. "This better work," he growled as he tossed his hat in the backseat beside the boy.
"Trust me. She'll come for the boy," said Vincenzo.
"You better be right."
The car turned off the smooth asphalt main road onto the gravel and dirt Skyline Ridge Road.
"We can't take her without a big scene. Right now, she's wondering if she should run away or if she should try and save him. She'll come. For the boy. And for her revenge. People like her have been fighting their entire lives but they just don't know it."
Glancing at Vincenzo, Fat Mikey said, "Man, you don't look so good."
Vincenzo paused, focusing on the road. He seemed dazed as the fever and fatigue worsened. The medicine the doctor had given him earlier no longer seemed to have any effect on him.
Vincenzo accelerated and the Audi fishtailed up the steep road, sliding to the left and then swerving back to the right. Fat Mikey braced against the dashboard and grunted. The boy sat in the back seat, sniffling. His tears had not yet arrived.
"Slow down there, champ. Don't fucking kill us, you crazy dago bastid."
A few minutes later, Vincenzo turned into the cabin driveway. Fat Mikey said in an upbeat tone, "Vin, you're alright. You still don't fucking know nothin’, but you alright." He always wanted to say something like that. For a moment Fat Mikey allowed himself a smile, as if the job at hand was as good as done.
Lucina walked unnoticed through Andes with her hands hanging at her side. In her right hand she held the heavy revolver, a .357 Python, unafraid of dying. Her eyes
squinted in the bright haze. The cicadas chirped in the hot, still afternoon.
She followed the directions the waitress shared, and after a ten-minute walk she turned on Skyline Ridge. On her immediate left, a broad field of tall grass, laid flat in some areas, head high in others. Beyond the field, ran a stream with a mill in great disrepair. The road was lined with waist high stone walls on either side. As the road steepened, the fields gave way to forest and the path darkened.
The road would be too easy. They would expect her to come that way. She hopped over the rock wall and walked with her arms spread wide through a field of shoulder high grasses. The thick brush and tall grasses pulled and bit at her like cat claws.
At the edge of the open field, she stood motionless for a long time. She sighed, having underestimated the terrain. Her eyes tracked upward from the creek where the slope quickly steepened, with rock slabs protruding at angles like bad teeth. Evergreens grew wherever they could find purchase. She listened for a car engine, anything out of place really, but only heard herself breathing and the gurgling of the nearby stream. After a few steps, she entered the densely canopied forest and at once, the atmosphere grew cooler and darker.
A carpet of leaves and twigs crunched underfoot. She followed the sound of rushing water until she reached a small stream, its banks soft and muddy. A giant weeping willow stood on the opposite bank. Giant limbs spread over the rushing water. The stream narrowed enough where she crossed by jumping on a series of giant rocks. She drank from the stream and the water was so cold her teeth ached.
At first she imagined the assassins in hot pursuit, like a couple of scent-mad bloodhounds. But after halting a few times and hearing nothing but the peaceful sounds of the woods, she felt confident there was no one coming for her.
Her father had once said living in Campania was like living in a giant machine oiled with the blood of the people—the levers and switches of the machine controlled by the Camorra clans. As a child, she imagined an actual massive machine with pipes and gears in a barn or in a cellar somewhere. Even then, her first instinct was not to recoil or hide, but to find this machine and destroy it. In a way, she told herself, she was doing that now.