Cut and Run

by Jeff Abbott

  ‘Like Waterford, scout.’

  Downstairs, the front door opened, the alarm giving off its little soft bleep of announcing entry.

  23

  Paul Bellini watched the slow, slow rise and fall of his father’s chest. His mother had converted a spare bedroom into a miniature hospital ward, and Paul wondered exactly how much money it was costing a day to keep the old guy going. His mother wouldn’t tell him, and once he’d shoved her about it, pissing mad, and Mary Pat Bellini said, ‘Every cent is for your father, not another word,’ and a deep welling shame overcame him. But last week, he’d sat by his father, calculating each breath in terms of dollars spent, and before he’d had two thoughts he’d wrapped the ventilator’s electric cord around his ankle, wondering how many shakes of the foot would pull the plug. Literally. How long his dad would breathe on his own, pr if he’d go with a merciful snap of the fingers. It would, after all, save money. A lot of money. And yeah, give his dad his dignity, too. That was a bonus.

  He took his father’s hand, felt the faint warmth in his fingers. Kissed the fingers, tucked them back under the sheet.

  ‘I need you to wake up, Dad. Now.’

  No answer.

  ‘I’m in trouble, Daddy. Wake up.’ Keeping his voice lower than the hum of the machines.

  Of course nothing again.

  ‘Two guys got killed at the Alvarez place. And the cops are gonna be on the Alvarezes like white on rice, Dad.’ When he used a Southern expression his father had always affectionately tapped him on the jaw, telling him don’t talk like your mom but not meaning it bad.

  He brought up his father’s hand, brushed it against his jaw in a little limp slap.

  ‘Do I pay the Alvarezes to keep quiet? Do I kill them? I don’t want to fuck up again, Dad.’

  He could hear his father’s voice inside his head: Nothing to connect you to Alvarez. And one thing to connect you to Eve. Doyle, and he was a screwup who probably owed money to any number of lowlifes. Pray the cops focus on him. Pray the old lawsuit that we won against the cops slows them down enough if they start looking at you, Paulie.

  Paul got up, went to the window. The window was taller than he was, facing onto the lush green yards and live oaks that led to the stone walls and gate at the front of the house. No reporters yet. What if Eve goes to the press? The thought was impossible to swallow; she’d incriminate herself. But if she got immunity, hell, she might end up giving interviews to People. Get a book deal. Appear on Oprah. Nausea wrenched his guts, and he put his forehead against the windowpane.

  The paper said the guy with Doyle was a Corpus Christi PI named Harry Chyme. But why was he there? What did he know about Doyle or the Bellini operations? The loose end of Harry Chyme, entirely unexpected, worried Paul sick. He’d asked Tasha to check up on the name Harry Chyme using her and her friend’s computer knowledge, see what they could dig up.

  He went back to his father’s bed, kissed his cheek, squeezed his hand, waiting for an answering tightening of fingers. Nothing.

  It was time to go. Kiko had phoned ten minutes ago, asked for an early lunch meeting, just the two of them. Paul went to the garage, popped open the back of his Porsche. A long length of heavy-gauge chain lay there in a burlap bag, the same chain he’d used to kill Ricky Marino back in Detroit. He’d boiled it repeatedly, sure that would eliminate any usable trace DNA evidence. The chain was not an item he could throw away. It felt a part of him, seared into his hand and head with every lash he’d laid on Marino’s flesh.

  He thought of using it on Eve. She’d scream, beg for mercy within five seconds. On Frank. The thieving, stupid little bastard, hit him in the throat with it, stop the singing forever. On Kiko, his perfect clothes shredded by the links, his perfect confidence torn away like flesh from bone.

  The Porsche purred as Paul pulled out of the driveway, past the ornate iron gates his dad had bought in Italy. He headed west on Westheimer, threading through the molasses traffic of Uptown and the Galleria, past the glass citadel of the Transco Tower, one of the tallest buildings in the world outside of a downtown area. He passed high-rise hotels, Neiman Marcus, ultratrendy eateries. He headed west and the trendiness began to fade as surely as if he had crossed a border. Now there were Persian rug shops, cellular stores in strip malls, neon written in languages other than English. He drove past Club Topaz; the lot was almost empty, although a noontime crowd would start to materialize soon.

  Seven blocks down on one corner was a small Greek deli; Paul parked the Porsche, went inside. Kiko Grace sat in a back corner. No José this time, which seemed odd. Paul glanced around the room, trying to make Kiko’s backup. Two older men sat at the counter, a couple of younger guys in another booth, not watching Paul walk by. He decided it was them and wondered exactly how many soldiers Kiko had brought to Houston. Or had already recruited here. Cash worked wonders. When you had it.

  Kiko offered a hand as Paul slid into the quiet hush of the booth. ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hey. I asked the waitress to give us a few minutes,’ Kiko said. ‘Because I’m not sure I want to eat with you.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Paul asked, knowing the answer.

  ‘Do you or do you not have the green cleaned yet and ready at hand?’ Kiko said. Not sounding mad yet.

  ‘I’m greener than a golf course, man.’ Paul laughed.

  ‘Then why am I hearing you don’t have it?’

  ‘Who said so?’

  ‘I got a phone call saying so,’ Kiko said.

  ‘From who?’

  ‘An anonymous but concerned citizen.’

  ‘Don’t yank me,’ Paul said. ‘Was it a woman?’ That bitch Eve, she was trying to sour the deal for him. Or cut her own deal, buy the coke herself with his and his father’s money. It would be brilliant, a quick way to cut his throat and cut him out in one swift move.

  ‘The caller was a man. Told me to read in the Chronicle about a banker getting whacked down at the port. I’m gonna ask again, and you better not be fucking lying to me. Because if you don’t have the green,’ Kiko said, ‘we got to negotiate a new deal.’

  ‘We’ve had a small delay. You’ll have your money this weekend.’

  Kiko sipped at his ice water. ‘I hate surprises. They make me uneasy. I get uneasy, you get unhappy.’ He gestured at the waitress. Kiko ordered sandwiches for them both and beers, not even asking Paul what he wanted. It was an insult, Paul decided, but he had no leverage at the moment. So he gave no reaction. But he thought of that chain, coiled in his car, and wondered how many of Kiko’s teeth he could shatter with the first blow.

  ‘So who killed your banker?’ Kiko said. Not letting it go yet. Not reassured.

  ‘I don’t know any dead bankers,’ Paul said. ‘It has nothing to do with our deal.’

  ‘Our deal is dead at the moment,’ Kiko said. ‘That fries my ass, a fucking dink I don’t know calling me, knowing my business. Right now my anonymous caller has more credibility with me than you do. Because he knows.’

  Paul tried not to swallow, show he had a tense lump in his throat. Kiko fell silent as the waitress brought them cold beers.

  ‘Everything is fine on my side,’ Paul said. ‘If you don’t want to do business with me, don’t do business with me. I can focus on lots of other projects, and you can try to find another single buyer for your goods.’ Man, he didn’t want to bluff now, but he couldn’t sit still and endure a lecture from this Miami greaseball.

  ‘I hope it’s fine, man. I sincerely hope. Because let’s share a moment of clarity. If you’re trying to score without paying me, if you’re trying to screw me over, I’m going to have your whole family killed.’ Now Kiko gave a smile that offered real warmth to it. ‘We clear?’

  Paul wanted to say, don’t threaten me you greaser son of a bitch, do you know who I am, but he kept quiet. There was no point, nothing to be gained, and he would be patient until he had his money and the coke. He needed the deal, so for now, he would take the disrespect. But never forget it. Ki
ko Grace had made a serious error.

  He made himself say, ‘We clear. Absolutely. The deal is on. You will have your money.’ Wondering who had called Kiko. A man’s voice. Frank, trying to find maneuvering room? One of Nicky’s friends, upset about his death at the Pie Shack, looking to switch sides? Or Bucks, thinking that Paul was fading and Kiko was the new power in town?

  The sandwiches came, in thick pita bread, rich dressing leaking out the side, homemade potato chips mounded around the sandwich. Paul picked up his sandwich, bit, chewed, couldn’t taste the food.

  Kiko watched him. ‘Good, isn’t it?’

  Paul made himself smile.

  24

  Scream, Tasha thought. He won’t shoot you. Scream your head off.

  ‘Not a word,’ Whit whispered to Tasha. He kept the gun steady on her but his scalp sweated, the skin along the back of his legs prickled.

  He heard the downstairs voices rising in anger, Bucks saying, ‘How hard is it to follow a goddamned car? Isn’t he a high-school graduate?’ Then a pause.

  ‘Call Paul,’ Frank Polo said. ‘Right now. Or I will. You’re the one who messed up, Bucks.’

  Whit moved to the broken window, saw that the roof sloped down to the covered walk between the house and the garage. Thumbed the latches, pushed it open. Heard footsteps treading up the stairs, Frank’s voice, rich like chocolate, still arguing with Bucks to get Paul on the phone.

  Whit lowered the gun and went out the window, stepping onto the shingled roof. Tasha ran out of the room and screamed ‘Bucks!’

  He skidded down the shingles, glancing up to see a man’s startled face at the busted window. Whit jumped onto the walkway’s roof then dropped down on the wet patch of cool green lawn. In the backyard a brick path snaked through the grass. The back windows were curtained, no Bucks yanking open the drapes to fire on him.

  The yard was fenced; with another house on each side, close up against each property line. He ran to the fence on his right and a big dog barked angrily. He cussed and ran to the other fence. A back door opened behind him. He didn’t look back.

  Whit jumped onto a trellis dense with ivy. A thweet popped on his left and the ivy shredded as a silenced bullet pocked the fence. Whit hauled himself over the fence with a huge pull. Another thweet and the passing bullet yanked his windbreaker’s back; he smelled a puff of burnt nylon as he dropped down into the neighbor’s driveway.

  Not shot. He sprinted past a parked BMW, pulled himself over the black iron fleurs-de-lis that topped the driveway gate. Frank’s house was on his left now, and he ran at full steam toward the L intersection where Timber Lane met Locke Lane and the narrow green of River Oaks Park lay.

  He heard the thock of tennis balls against damp courts at the near end of the park but he couldn’t see the players, and screaming for help was no good. Gooch’s van was another thirty feet away and Whit measured out his life in those steps, his sneakered feet slamming against the street, thinking he’ll have to chase me down the street but how far can his gun reach? He ran and as he turned onto Timber Road a gray Mercedes barreled down the street at him.

  He risked a glance behind him and saw a young man with white-blond hair – not Bucks – chasing him onto Locke, gun in hand.

  Whit angled to get the van between him and the man and he heard the crack of the gun, the silencer off, sure, to let the bullet fly farther. He was ten feet from the van … five … the gun fired again and heat passed his throat like an angel’s wing.

  He thought he was hit. He rounded the corner of the van as the Mercedes accelerated, revving in sweet German force, and thundered past Whit.

  Whit glanced back, saw the Mercedes aiming at Blondie. Saw Blondie turn and run and the Mercedes clip him. Blondie went over the windshield. The Mercedes spun out, its front crashing into a modest little Honda parked at the intersection of Locke and Timber, and Blondie fell, went down on the other side of the car.

  Gooch. In Eve’s car.

  Whit scrambled to his feet. Felt his back, his arm. No wound although a sting lay across his neck; there was no gush of blood.

  Gooch yelled through an open window. ‘Go!’

  Whit ran, got the key into the van, started the engine. He watched in the rearview.

  The Mercedes was gone. Blondie stood, staggering past the street corner, gun still in hand.

  Whit floored the van. Shots fired in River Oaks; the police would be here in ninety freaking seconds. He headed fast down Locke Lane, squealed onto Claremont, then ran a red light and drove past Westheimer. He stayed straight, heading all the way back to the quiet of West University Place.

  They could stop Paul Bellini dead in his tracks now. Get Eve to review the CD, identify the most incriminating files. They could be sent, anonymously, to the DA’s office or the FBI or whoever would descend on Paul like a pack of wolves fastest. He’d have to check evidentiary law, decide who would be best to approach. But the win was in their grasp. A negotiated safety for his mother, and they could be in Port Leo by tonight or tomorrow. At the light at Bissonnet he turned left, checking his neck in the rearview mirror while he waited for the arrow to go green. A graze, nothing worse. A millimeter the other way and his carotid artery would be sprayed all over the manicured green of River Oaks Park. He breathed hard but steadied his hands.

  He took a circuitous route through the quiet, narrow streets of West U, driving past the fancy blue street signs, but there was no sign he was being followed. After ten minutes of driving and watching his rearview he pulled the van into Charlie’s garage. Charlie was gone; he had left this morning for his stand-up gig in San Antonio, with them promising him to lie low and do nothing untoward or illegal. As soon as Whit parked, Eve was at the back door, opening it, worried.

  He ran in, she slammed the door behind him.

  They shot at me, nearly hit me. Gooch saved my ass.’

  ‘Whit, oh no, baby, here, sit down.’

  It did not even bother him that she called him baby. He collapsed on the couch. She examined his neck, got a damp cloth. He told her about Tasha, their discussion, her attempt to shoot him, the blond guy’s chase of him.

  ‘I hope Gooch broke the son of a bitch’s legs,’ Eve said. ‘That’s Gary, one of Paul’s thugs. Not bright, but a good shot.’

  ‘Gary wasn’t with Frank and Bucks when they left,’ Whit said. ‘He must’ve followed them back.’

  Eve ran the washcloth along his face. This stops now,’ she said in a hoarse voice. ‘I don’t want you hurt.’

  ‘It does stop now. I got the CD Tasha was burning of your laptop’s files. Files Paul wanted. If it’s got the goods on Paul we can tell him we’ll show it to the police unless he leaves you alone. And then we’ll show it anyway.’

  Eve stopped wiping. ‘Let me see this CD.’

  For an instant Whit didn’t want to give her the disc. In case she didn’t want to show it to the cops, didn’t want to implicate herself.

  ‘We’ll wait for Gooch. I want him to see the data, too.’

  ‘Don’t you trust me, Whit?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, not knowing if it was true. ‘But we’ll wait a minute for Gooch, okay?’

  She sat next to him, doctoring his graze. They waited. But Gooch didn’t come back.

  25

  Bucks watched the tall, ugly punk on the bed. The man’s eyes were closed, and he was tied down with sailboat rope Frank stored in the garage. Tasha had draped a cold washcloth across his bruised face, but the man hadn’t stirred.

  From the upstairs window Bucks watched Frank Polo and Tasha Strong in the driveway. The damaged Mercedes was tucked into the garage; still driveable, at least enough to limp into the driveway and then behind the closed doors. The bullet Gary had put through the Mercedes’ back windshield couldn’t be seen. A police car had arrived minutes after Tasha and Bucks got the punk and Gary into the house, and the Mercedes into the garage. Frank stood out in the driveway and he had chatted with the cops, explaining another car crunched into his friend’s
Honda then veered into their yard before taking off. He had no idea why a neighbor would have reported shots fired. The sound of the accident perhaps? Or kids running around in the winter sunshine with BB guns? Youngsters in the park last week shot grackles out of the oaks. Frank, with a smile, asked the officers if they heard his songs on the oldies stations, and would they like an autograph for their wives? The police had asked their questions of him and Tasha; she said she owned the Honda, didn’t see the other car hit it. The police left. Tasha swept up the broken glass in the street.

  Frank could be awesomely cool when he had to be.

  ‘How’s the guy I hit?’ a gravelly voice behind Bucks said. The punk – he had said last night at the club his name was Leonard – had one eye open. ‘Did I kill him?’

  ‘You’re shot, buddy, and you’re wondering if you killed someone?’ Bucks said.

  ‘I’m shot?’ Leonard seemed surprised. But his eyes were unfocused.

  ‘Bullets are funny things. He shot at you but it went through the rear windshield and an edge of the headrest and hit you in the back of the head. Broke the skin but it bounced off your skull, I think. You pulled up hard into our yard, I leaned in and belted you twice with the butt of my gun. Your head must be made of granite, partner.’

  ‘I’m shot,’ the man said. He rubbed at the back of his head, as though he expected a bullet fragment to be protruding like a bump. ‘Gonna be a long wait for the second bullet.’

  Bucks sat down by him. ‘Why should I want to kill you, partner?’

  ‘I’ve messed up your plans,’ Leonard said.

  ‘But I’m highly adaptable,’ Bucks said. ‘You need to be adaptable, too. So answer a few questions for me, and I don’t stick my gun in your pants and shoot your dick off.’ He tossed Gooch’s wallet on the bed. ‘Who are you, Mr O’Connor, and why do you have such a grudge against me?’