“What does he have on you?”
“I wasn’t always corrupt. Don’t get me wrong. I was corrupt when Frank nabbed me, yeah, I was corrupt for years before that. But I wasn’t always. Once upon a time I was an honest cop. Just like your father. And you see where that got him.”
“I don’t know where it got him, Chief. He disappeared, remember?”
“I guess that’s my point. It got him nowhere.”
I said nothing to that.
“I was at their wedding, you know. Your mother and father’s. So was Augie. So was Frank.” The Chief laughed. “One of the gift envelopes disappeared, and everyone just assumed Frank took it.”
I waited a moment, then said, “You should get your arm taken care of, Chief.”
He nodded. He looked at me again, this time as if he was summing me up. He looked skeptical, unsure about me – or maybe unsure about what he was about to do.
“We don’t have much time,” he said. “Open my gun safe.”
I didn’t move.
“Go ahead. Go. We don’t have time to fuck around. Open it. It’s unlocked.”
I turned and went to the safe. It was as tall as I. I used my jacket pocket like a glove and turned the lever down. The door swung back slowly, moved by its own weight. Inside the safe were four assault shotguns, two hunting rifles, and six handguns of various kinds mounted on pegs. On a series of narrow shelves were boxes of ammo, several for each type of gun, some cleaning kits and a pair of gloves. Tucked in at the back of one shelf was what looked like several clear plastic bags.
“On the second shelf from the top there are some baggies,” the Chief said. “Can you see them.”
“Yeah.”
“Take out the one closest to the edge of the shelf.”
I looked at him, then back into the safe.
“Hurry,” he urged softly.
I reached into the second shelf and grabbed the plastic baggy between my thumb and forefinger. I pulled it out carefully and slowly, as if whatever it was might at any minute bite me.
But when the baggy fell free of the shelf and I held onto it and stopped it from falling to the floor I felt a weight I recognized it immediately. I held up the baggy and looked through the clear plastic to its contents, then looked back at the Chief.
“It’s the gun that belonged to the man Augie shot,” he said. “Yesterday I removed it from where it was hidden at the station house and brought it here.”
I didn’t know what to say. My mouth hung open slightly. A part of me wanted to hold the gun to my chest and laugh. Augie was free. Augie was free. Augie was free.
The Chief said, “Tell Augie to give this to his attorney. Tell him to tell his attorney that you found it in a storm drain. Then tell his attorney call the DA. The dead man’s prints are all over it. It’s as simple as that.”
“And what happens when they find this missing? What happens to you?”
“I don’t plan on being here to find out. My wife and son are safely out of town. I’m leaving tonight to join them till this whole thing blows over.”
“What whole thing?”
“Frank’s cleaning house tonight. He’s got his own little death squad, his own SS, and they’re on the march. I imagine they’ll come here. I imagine they’ll come to your place. And I imagine they’ll come to – “
“Augie.”
“I’m not sure how much of this Augie’s figured out. If Augie has a fault, it’s that he’s loyal to his friends. Even a friend like Frank. Frank could knock on his door and Augie’ll let him right in.”
“Shit,” I said. I turned to leave.
The Chief said, “Wait. There’s just one more thing.”
I stopped and turned my head to look at him. “What?” I said quickly.
“There’s another bag on that shelf. Pull it out.”
I went back to the safe, put the baggy with the gun in my left hand, and reached into the shelf with my right. Again I grabbed hold of the plastic between my thumb and forefinger. I pulled the bag out.
I held it up, though I didn’t need to look at it to know what it contained. Inside was my Spyderco knife, the blade opened. It was stained with blood—Concannon’s?--and a light talcum on it showed that it was covered with fingerprints, most certainly my own. The blood had dried but not before it had smeared the clear plastic. I looked at the Chief.
“Help me up,” he said.
I went to him, paused, then squatted beside him. I wrapped his left arm around my neck and stood. I was more something he could push against than something that lifted him. He was a giant of a man.
We were face to face then, closer than we had ever been. I saw that the crow’s feet around his eyes were dark furrows that wedged themselves into a line of ridges when he winced. I could feel his breath on my face. His arm remained around my neck till his footing was solid.
“Get Augie out of here,” he said to me. “Stay away for a couple of days, at least.”
“I can help you to your car.”
He shook his head. “No. But there is one thing you can do for me.”
“What?”
“Load one of my guns.”
I waited a minute, then said finally, “Which one?”
“The Glock. It’s the lightest, and if I have to shoot, I’ll be shooting with my left. Load a few clips for me, if you can.”
I went to the safe and looked for the Glock. It was resting on the top peg.
“There are a pair of gloves by the cleaning kits. Put them on.”
I put on the gloves, took down the Glock, then found three clips on the shelf, beside a box of armor piercing, police issue .45 caliber bullets. I loaded each clip and lay two of them together on the top shelf. The third clip I slapped into the Glock.
There was no safety. I chambered the first bullet and lay the live gun on the shelf. I took off the gloves and stepped away and looked at the Chief. He nodded once in thanks. I wondered if that hurt him more than his busted elbow.
“Give Augie and his daughter my best,” he said.
I couldn’t help it then, my eyes drifted to the nearest intact photograph of Tommy. I didn’t know what to make of the Chief wishing well the girl his son had tried to rape. I realized then that this all started with the two of them, with Tina and Tommy, and an act of violence that beget another act of violence that left me vulnerable to the machinations of Frank Gannon. It seemed comforting to think it was all that simple, that the beginning was so easily pegged, that this madness could be boiled down to one night five months ago.
But of course I knew better. This had started long ago, before I was born, when Frank killed his first man and buried him in his own private bone orchard.
Before I reached the door the Chief said abruptly, “MacManus.” I stopped and turned. He didn’t say anything for a moment. He looked me up and down, that same skeptical, unsure look on his face. Or was it disgust I saw, or contempt, or loathing? I knew what it wasn’t – it wasn’t forgiveness.
“You might soon learn something that’s going to tear up your insides,” he said. “When that happens … think of my boy. Do me that favor, at least.”
Augie’s pickup was parked in his driveway, outside the garage. I pulled George’s Bug to the curb, left the keys in it, and got out in a hurry. The bag containing the gun was in my hand. I had locked the one containing my Spyderco knife in the glove compartment. I planned on ditching it in the Shinnecock Canal right after I brought Augie the prize that, I hoped, would win back his friendship.
I rushed across the yard to the house and entered without knocking. Tina came out of the kitchen, alarmed by the sound of the crashing door. My excitement and my condition made me clumsy. I saw that she had a glass of beer in her hand.
“Mac.”
“Where’s Augie?” I said. I went to the hallway that lead from the living room down to the two bedrooms and Augie’s study.
“He’s not here,” Tina said. I stopped and turned toward her. She seemed puzzled by my excit
ement. Tina looked down at the bag in my hand. “What is that?”
“It’s the gun that belonged to the man Augie shot.”
She took two long steps toward me. “What? Where’d you get it?”
“It doesn’t matter. Where is he?”
“He went out.”
“Out where?”
She shrugged. “They said something about the Indian Reservation.”
“What?”
“They said something about the Indian Reservation.”
“They who?”
“Frank and the other guy.”
“What other guy?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before.”
“Did he have a limp?”
“What?”
“Did he walk with a limp?”
“I didn’t notice. Mac, what’s wrong?”
“Why is Augie’s truck still here.”
“They went in Frank’s car.”
“How long ago?”
“What’s going on?”
“How long ago?”
“Maybe a half hour. Mac? What’s going on?”
I broke into a run down the hallway. I felt no pain. I went into Augie’s office and knelt in front of his safe and dialed the combination. The safe opened and I tossed the bag containing the gun inside. There were three other guns in the safe, two Colt .45’s and a Ruger .380, all but one of the Colts gun metal blue. I took out the .45’s, gave them a quick check, then grabbed five clips, all my hand could hold. The clips were loaded. I slapped one into each Colt and put the other three in my back pocket. They stabbed my hip but I didn’t care. I closed the safe door and spun the lock to the left, then the right, then the left again.
When I stood Tina was standing in the doorway.
“Mac, what are you doing?”
I checked the safeties and stuffed both .45’s into the waistband of my jeans, one behind and one in front. I walked toward Tina full stride. She barely got out of my way in time. I left the study and started down the hall.
I said evenly, “You can’t stay here.”
“Mac, do you even know how to use a gun?”
“Call Eddie. Have him take you to Lizzie’s. Don’t leave her house till you hear from me. Understand?”
“Mac, what’s going on?”
I took off my denim jacket, then opened the hallway closet. I dropped the jacket to the floor and grabbed one of Augie’s spare field jackets and pulled it off a hanger. The hanger spun once, then fell to the closet floor. I put the jacket on as quickly as my shoulder and ribs would allow. The fact that it was too big for me was a blessing.
Tina studied my torso. The bandage on my shoulder was visible under my short sleeves. “Mac, what happened to you?” she said.
“Listen to me. If you don’t hear from me by morning, call Gale. Tell her that Augie wanted me to take care of you if something happened to him, and that I wanted her to take care of you if something happened to me. Okay? Do you hear me?”
“What are you talking about? What’s going to happen you? Mac?”
“Do what I told you, okay? Lock these doors when I leave, turn off the lights, then call Eddie and have him take you to Lizzie’s. And stay there. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Do promise to do this for me?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a real promise, Tina, not a Tina Hartsell promise.”
“Yes, yes, I promise. Just tell me what’s going on?”
I was almost out of breath from the effort of putting on the jacket. I adjusted it once, quickly, then zipped it up.
I took a step toward Tina then. Her eyes were searching out mine wildly. She was on the verge of tears. She waited eagerly for whatever it was I was about to say.
“There’s a check for ten thousand dollars in my apartment. If you don’t hear from me I want you to take it.”
“Mac, you’re scaring me.”
I reached into my pocket and took out what was left of the thousand dollars Curry had given me. I handed it to her, stuffing it into her palm. She hesitated at taking it.
“Please,” I said. “Just take it.”
“Mac.”
“Just take it.”
Her right hand closed over the wad.
“Just hold it for me till I get back, okay?”
“Is Augie in trouble?” Tears were beginning to slip from her narrowed eyes. As always when she cried, she seemed more angry than sad – angry at herself for showing weakness. She was her father’s daughter. “Is he in trouble?” she repeated.
“Yeah, Tina, I think maybe he is.”
I transferred the three clips from my back pocket to the right cargo pocket of the field jacket.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” I told her.
“Do you even know how to use a gun, Mac? I’ve never even seen you touch one before.”
I turned without answering and started toward the front door. Tina followed close behind. There was a metal dish on a table by the door with the keys to Augie’s pickup in it. I grabbed them and looked at Tina.
“Frank Gannon killed Amy,” I told her. “If I don’t get a chance to, I want you to tell her father that. Do you understand?”
She nodded. Her hands were hanging at her sides. I took her left hand with my right. It caught her by surprise. Her eyes locked on mine.
“I’ll call you at Lizzie’s in a little while,” I said. I let go of her hand. She held onto mine for a while longer, then let go. It seemed to take everything she had.
I left her then, closing the door behind me. I ran across the lawn to the driveway and climbed up into Augie’s truck. I cranked the ignition. The engine sang. I hit the lights and backed out into the street.
I followed Little Neck Road to its end, then turned right and headed east down Montauk. I sped along the blacktop without even looking at the speedometer.
I had played war here when I was a boy with kids from school, poorer kids, mostly, with whom I felt more comfortable than I did with those who lived around me on Gin Lane. I remember being happiest here, I remember those late-summer afternoons and those early nights of winter as the best parts of my unpleasant childhood. As I drove now I could see in my mind’s eye the place where Frank must have taken Augie – a clearing on the shore of Shinnecock Bay, surrounded on three sides by oak and ash trees and thick underbrush. This had to be the place. There was a path leading to it—this path had been there when I first started going there to play war and that had grown deeper when I finally left that and all other boyish games behind me for good.
There were, I remembered, some fallen trees. And he terrain was uneven, with crests and many depressions that were so deep they were almost ditches. The ground was mainly bare earth with some grass and wild ferns growing in patches, mainly on the highest points of ground. I could understand why Frank would choose this place – the reservation was protected land, the tribe wasn’t growing so fast that there would be a housing boom, and who would build there anyway when the northern and eastern edges of the reservation were on flat land with soft soil and less wilderness? The Shinnecock for the most part built their own homes, and the land by the shore wasn’t the kind of land one could easily level and lay in a crawlspace foundation with shovels and picks and wheelbarrows of cement on a Saturday afternoon.
I turned off Montauk Highway and back onto the reservation again and followed a dirt road as far south as it went. It came to a stop at the trunk of a fallen, rotting tree. Beyond that was just woods, thick woods. I saw even before I reached the end of the road three cars parked side by side. The first car I recognized was Frank Gannon’s Seville. It was hard to miss. The second was a small pickup with a glossy black paint job. I didn’t get a look at the third till I killed the motor and the light and got out of Augie’s truck and started toward the path that began at the end of the road. But the sight of third car slowed me a bit. I stared at it with almost disbelief. It was the dark LTD that belonged to the man with the limp, to w
hom I owed my life and who owed me his.
I continued toward the path. Once I reached it I stopped and listened. Above, the heavy blanket of low clouds, frayed and shredded into long strands, flew quickly past the three-quarter moon. The moon was midway up from the horizon and perfectly white and spread a pale light into the woods ahead of me. It was almost enough to see by.
Then I heard faint voices. I could tell they were shouts but I couldn’t hear words. I took a step onto the path and then heard a muffled pop, flat and abrupt. It was a shotgun blast. I heard more voices, more distant yelling, and then another pop. After that I heard the firecracker sound of small-arms fire, shots that were right on top of each other and could not have come from one gun.
I ran full stride into the woods, following a path that seemed familiar only when it was directly beneath my feet. I could not predict it, but there was enough light to make out the line it cut through the dense woods, and I just aimed for that.
I reached inside the jacket and pulled the Colt from the front of my waistband. Then I reached around, under the jacket, and gripped the other one by its ridged grip and pulled it out. That was the chrome one. I switched off each safety with my thumb.
I moved over the path, up small rises and down, around the zigzag of turns. I held a full-bore run for a hundred yards, then started my next hundred. My worn-out sneakers slapped the dirt with an even, rapid rhythm. I just focused on staying on the path and holding that rhythm.
I counted six shotgun bursts but could not keep track of the small-arms fire. With each pumping of my legs the sounds got louder, clearer. I could hear the voices but still could not hear words, not yet, not over my horse-like exhalations and the rushing wind in my ears. Toward the end the path began to zigzag sharper. The terrain was rougher here, more uneven, rising and falling like a tiny roller coaster.
I hit numbness, I hit runner’s high, and as the endorphins cascaded down through my brain I was struck with the euphoric belief that I could hold this pace forever.
But the euphoria didn’t last. Up ahead was the end of the path. I could see into the clearing, the thick woods on both sides of me acting like blinders.
The small-arms fire was to my left. I could hear that. When the end of the path was just feet away I looked to my right and saw a man crouched behind a fallen tree that lay atop the edge of a hole in the ground. There was another man laying motionless across the trunk of the tree. The crouched man was holding a shotgun between his legs and frantically searching the pockets of the motionless man while staying covered by the tree. The small arms-fire continued, bullets cutting pockmarks in the log. The man with the empty shotgun was Augie.
Gin Palace 02 - The Bone Orchard Page 18