by Anthony Izzo
That same summer she threatened to leave him (was it ’63 or ’64? It was before he went to Vietnam), she was walking to the drugstore to pick up cough syrup for Harry. He had developed a summer cold and was hacking like he had TB.
She had to travel the alley between a hardware store and the Laundromat on her way to Glosser’s, and she remembered the icy chill that danced over her back. She saw a flicker, amber lights in the darkness, like a jack-o-lantern.
The smell nearly flattened her. It was like sulfur and under it the stench of feces, blood and entrails. There had been a meat-packing plant five miles from their farm. It smelled now like it had then when there was a hog slaughter, and she remembered sitting on the porch with Zelda, perfume-soaked handkerchiefs over their noses.
She stood frozen by fear and morbid curiosity, wondering exactly what had happened in that alley.
The chain-link fence at the back of the alley jingled, the moonlight catching the beast as it reached the top. It had a corpse slung over its shoulder, the skin bleached out from blood loss. It looked right at her and damned if it didn’t smile before leaping the fence and disappearing into the night with its quarry.
She ran all the way home.
She had arrived at the house huffing and puffing, with Harry wondering where his cough syrup had gone. She told him Glosser’s had closed early and he gave her a quizzical look and dismissed the issue for the moment.
The next morning she told him what she had seen, and apologized for not believing him. He had smiled, patted her hand and said, “That’s okay, I don’t blame you.” He could’ve gloated and said, “I told you so,” but he didn’t, and she loved him for that.
She had a feeling Harry was up to something involving the beasties, and he confirmed her suspicions this morning, calling to tell her the story of the siege at the cabin. She’d known his tale about him doing repairs at the cabin was bull chips, because Harry never did any work up there until a week before shotgun season. He was never good at slipping things past her.
Harry told her one of his friends was missing, and the other had died during the fight. The cabin was a total loss, and they needed weapons to go after Rafferty and stop the Harvest.
There were no second thoughts about bringing them the guns; it was automatic.
She clicked the garage door remote and the door creaked on its tracks. The plan was for her to meet Harry at the old Buffalo Tool and Die Works two blocks from the hotel. After delivering the weapons she was to return to the gun shop.
Harry had wanted her to stay at the hotel, but she responded, “Then who’s gonna run the shop?” Harry knew it was better not to argue with her when she got like that.
She pulled out of the driveway and turned left, heading for the entrance to the 190 South.
The shivers returned again.
Rafferty watched the old woman pull out of the driveway, confident she did not see him following. His vehicle of choice was a beige ‘83 Buick, impounded from a drunk driver who never returned to pick it up.
He knew she would lead him to Crowe’s friends if he trailed her. Instinct at work again.
She was a nice little bargaining chip, as well. Taking her would not be a problem.
He stayed five car lengths back, able to take his time for traffic was light and he didn’t have to worry about some jackass cutting in front of him and ruining his line of sight.
He trailed her to the ramp for the 190 South, the expressway that ran through the heart of downtown Buffalo.
Content with himself, he smiled, leaned back and drove, a man at ease.
Liza pulled the Honda into the lot of the old Die Works. It must have been the shipping and receiving dock, for there were four rusted roll-up doors, one of them spray-painted with the words GOODYEAR CREW. Liza had heard about them on the news, a gang that had terrorized most of the eastside, dealing drugs and shaking down neighbors for protection money.
She was flanked on both sides by sawtooth-style buildings, and the six-story main manufacturing complex towered in front of her. The lot only had access on one side, where she had entered through a busted chain-link gate. Because there were walls on three sides, the area could only be viewed from behind; that made it perfect for keeping prying eyes out.
She pulled up farther into the wasteland.
Empty syringes and glass vials littered the ground. The whole lot had become a microcosm of the inner city. Decay, garbage and a dreary hopelessness had settled over the old plant. Manufacturing jobs that once paid sixteen or eighteen dollars an hour were long gone, much like the days when you could walk these streets without worrying about taking a bullet.
There were old tires stacked in a heap, a washing machine with bullet holes in the side, an orange recliner with a spring popping out, and even a child’s doll with a bleached-out pink dress. It was a sad, broken-down area.
She engaged the electric locks, and after waiting a very long five minutes, a Chevy pickup pulled in, Harry driving and a sweet young thing in his passenger seat that had to be Jill.
They killed the engine and got out, Liza doing the same, stepping over broken glass and crack vials. She and Harry met halfway and she smoothed her hand across his cheek.
“How are you, you old fool?” she said.
“Still alive and kickin’.”
He kissed her on the lips.
“No time for that. Your goodies are in the trunk,” Liza said.
He introduced her to Jill and they shook hands.
“Not getting fresh with the old boy, are you?”
“He is awfully handsome.”
“Will you two cut it out?” Harry said, a blush creeping into his cheeks. He opened the Honda’s trunk and pulled out a green duffel bag. Then he dragged it over to the pickup and hoisted it into the bed.
He stopped long enough to peer across the lot, toward the opening at the chain-link fence, where Liza had entered the property.
She noticed him staring at something.
“What are you looking at?”
“Was that beige car there when you pulled in?”
When she turned around, the driver swerved out of his spot and sped away, the tires squealing.
“My guess is you were followed. That looked like an unmarked cop car.”
“You shouldn’t go home. Stay with us,” Jill said.
“Nonsense, missy. I’ve got a store to run, and I’m not letting anyone stop me from running it, cop or no cop.”
Harry said, “Stay with us.”
“Hogwash. I can handle myself,” Liza said.
“But—”
She lowered her voice and glared at him. “Harold.”
“Dammit, Liza.”
“Dammit yourself. Now listen to me, both of you.”
She approached Harry and placed her hands on his cheeks, tilting his head so he looked down at her. “You two worry about yourselves. If you don’t stop them, a lot of people are going to die. They don’t want me, anyhow. I fully expect both of you to come out of this alive, got it?”
“Sheesh,” Harry said.
“I don’t want you to do this, Harry, but someone has to. It won’t be any worse than worrying if you were lying dead in some Vietnam rice paddy. Just get out alive.”
“Promise me on Harvest night you’ll either leave or lock yourself in the bunker.”
“Another bunker?” Jill said.
“Under the gun shop. Built like a brick shithouse. No way would they get in there.”
“I promise,” she said.
She pressed herself against him and he hugged her. The body had softened and expanded with age, but she still relished the strength in Harry’s arms, the way he embraced her. That was something that would never burn out or grow old.
He let her go, and she squeezed Jill hard. She looked surprised, as if she hadn’t expected a tough old broad to give her a hug.
She climbed back into the Honda and lowered the window.
“Careful going home. This ain’t exactly Beverl
y Hills,” Harry said.
“Don’t worry. I’m packing.”
She tooted the horn and pulled out of the lot, immediately looking for a beige car.
She had been foolish, allowing herself to be followed to the meeting, and by a cop, no less.
On the ride back to the gun shop, she checked the rearview mirror every few seconds, scanning the road for the beige car. The only vehicle behind her the whole way home was a titanic white Cadillac.
Still, her stomach quivered.
A fine mist tapped on the windshield, and the wipers beat it away. The cold had seeped into her bones, gnawing on them like a pit bull with a T-bone in its jaws. She had the heater going full tilt, but she still shivered.
It was as if the cold was buried deep in the bones, and no amount of external heat could penetrate to warm her.
Once again, the thought of her own carelessness, of being followed, entered her mind, an unwanted guest that wouldn’t leave. She prided herself on the fact that she was always quick to spot a bullshit artist or a con man, and her lapse in watchfulness made her wonder if she was losing something with age.
No one put one over on Liza Pierce.
Then why did you let that car trail you?
It didn’t matter now, for the damage was done.
She pulled into the garage fifteen minutes later, and while in the breezeway, she made sure to lock the door to the garage. She did the same in the house, checking all the locks and closing all the miniblinds.
She patted her breast to assure herself the thirty-eight was still there.
Still feeling chilled, she turned the thermostat up to seventy, the furnace coughing out a dry, dusty smell indicative of the first lighting.
She still felt frozen, so she boiled some water and made herself a cup of Earl Grey. Lord, it was chilly! And not even September yet.
It was when she sat in her recliner that the cold became the least of her problems.
She heard footsteps on the kitchen floor.
She stood up and whirled around to see Ed Rafferty standing three feet behind her chair.
He moved fast, grabbing her wrist before she could take a step to get away.
“How the hell did you get in here?”
“I beat you back here. You really should lock your doors.”
He dragged her across the living room and out of the apartment.
Matt heard a woman’s voice, thin and reedy, echoing down the hallway of the cell block.
Now what was Rafferty up to?
He gripped a wiry, elderly woman above the elbow. Her hair was tied up in a bun, streaked gray-black. The struggle with Rafferty had wrinkled her cardigan and ankle-length skirt.
“You’re breaking my arm,” she said.
“You’ll be lucky if that’s all I break,” Rafferty said.
He produced a key from his belt and unlocked the cell door next to Matt’s, shoving the woman inside. She lost her balance and sprawled onto the concrete floor.
“You sure they’re aren’t any Boy Scouts or cripples you want to rough up while you’re at it?” Matt asked.
“Shut your hole.”
Rafferty slammed the door and the clanging noise bounced around the hallway.
The woman pulled herself to her feet and dusted off her sweater, as if dirty clothing were the only thing that concerned her right now. He looked away from her, trying to spare her some dignity, and her heard her mutter “Asshole cop” under her breath.
Good for you, lady.
Rafferty glared at him and stalked off down the hallway.
“You wouldn’t know my Harry, would you?” she asked.
“Gun shop Harry?”
“Yes.”
“I do. Know him, I mean.”
“You must be Matt.”
“How’d you know?”
She looked over her shoulder and stepped closer to the bars that separated the cells, lowering her voice to a whisper.
“I don’t know how good their hearing is, but it can’t hurt to whisper. Harry and Jill are alive. They’re holed up at the Best Western in Buffalo.”
Thank the Lord. Jill was alive.
“Are they okay?”
“A little battered and bruised, but otherwise fine. I brought them some provisions.”
“Rafferty wants them. They can’t come into town. If he gets all three of us it’s really over.”
“Well they’ve got enough firepower to level this place and put a serious hurt on those bastards, pardon my French.”
“God, the Harvest. I’ve got to get out of here.”
She peered over her shoulder like a child sneaking cookies from the jar. “This might help you.”
She plucked her sweater away from her chest, then slipped the other hand in and pulled out a snub nose revolver. He should have been surprised at an old woman producing a revolver from under her sweater, but somehow he was not. She seemed to be full of piss and vinegar.
“How did you manage to get that in here?”
“That stupid oaf probably figured I was just a harmless old lady.”
She handed him the revolver and he slid it under his mattress, smoothing it over as not to leave a bulge.
“Why did they bring you in?”
“Rafferty followed me, the weasel. And I was silly enough to let myself be followed. Lord, it’s cold in here!”
“He wants to get them too. They’ll be walking into a trap,” Matt said.
“Not much we can do sitting in here. But if we could use that gun ...”
“Let me think about how.”
Footsteps clicked down the hall, and Liza backed away from Matt’s cell and sat on the bed.
Rafferty appeared, took out his keys and opened the doors to Liza’s cell. She turned her head away, refusing to look at him. He had a lumpy paper bag tucked under one arm like a football.
“Let’s go.”
He dragged her to her feet and took her down the hallway to the room at the end of the corridor. It was the same room where Rafferty had taken Matt as a teenager and threatened to kill him if he squealed about the murder of his family.
“You’d better not hurt her, you son of a bitch.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Rafferty said.
He pushed her into the room and closed the door. Maybe he was just going to talk to her.
Matt doubted it. He had to get out of here.
Fifteen minutes later, a red-haired cop came to Matt’s cell and instructed him to turn around. The cop opened the cell door. Then Matt felt his arm jerked behind him. The cop slapped on a cuff.
Matt considered the gun under the mattress, about making a move for it, but he didn’t know what had happened to Liza. He couldn’t abandon her in this hole.
The cop pulled Matt’s other arm back and completed the job. He was led out of the cell block and into a garage, where a beige car was parked.
The cop told him to sit down and gave him a shove to help him to the ground. Matt landed hard, jarring his tailbone on the concrete.
“Stay there,” the cop said.
“Like I have a choice.”
Five minutes later, Rafferty stepped through the door with a small cardboard box tucked under his arm. It was sealed with clear packing tape.
“Take this to your friends at the Best Western.”
So he had gotten information from Liza in that little room.
“Be back here in an hour. If you’re not, I’ll kill the old bitch. I’m not fucking around on this one, so don’t get cute on me.”
The red-haired cop stepped behind him, bent over, and unlocked the cuffs. Matt rubbed at his chafed wrists.
Rafferty handed him the box. It was light, not even a pound.
“What the hell is this?”
“A message. Don’t open it until you get there. The keys are in the car. Open the door, Clarence.”
The other cop pressed a red button on the wall and the garage door rolled open.
Matt got in the car, started it up and backe
d out of the police garage.
He screeched into the hotel parking lot, catching a sour look from the doorman. The guy was dressed in a bright red uniform that reminded Matt vaguely of the witches’ soldiers in The Wizard of Oz.
He parked the car, entered the lobby and stopped at the front desk. The clerk, a bronze-skinned woman, flashed him a smile and told him which room Harry was staying in.
Matt took the elevator to the fifth floor and stepped off, nearly crashing into the cleaning woman and her cart of mops and disinfectants. He stopped at 517 and knocked on the door.
Harry opened the door.
“Matt!”
Harry’s eyes bulged like moons and Matt thought the big man just might grab him in a bear hug. Thankfully he only shook Matt’s hand heartily.
Matt stepped into the room, brushing against Harry’s belly as he entered the room.
“What’s that?” Harry asked, jabbing his finger at the box.
“Rafferty sent it with me. We’ve got to hurry up—I’ve only got forty minutes before I have to be back, or he’ll ...”
“He’ll what?”
“He’s got Liza. I’m sorry, Harry.”
“That son of a bitch. How is she?”
“Holding her own. She snuck in a revolver. That’s some woman you got there.”
“That’s my girl,” he said.
“Where’s Jill?”
“I’ll summon her.”
Harry banged on the connecting door. Jill asked who it was and then opened it when Harry said, “Us!”
“Look who I found.”
Her eyes got bigger than Harry’s had, and she threw herself at Matt, pressing her face into his chest. He hugged her close with his free arm and kissed the top of her head.
“I’m so glad you’re alive,” she said.
“I wasn’t sure I’d see you again,” he told her.
She stepped back, smiling, her eyes tearing.
“Now don’t go getting sentimental on me. I’ve got to leave in about twenty minutes.”
“What’s with the box?”
“Let’s find out.”
He led the way into Jill’s room and opened the desk drawer, digging until he came up with a pen with BEST WESTERN on its side.