Pagan Babies

by Elmore Leonard

  He said, “Things aren’t always what they seem, are they?”

  24

  * * *

  THE MUTT WAS LATE PICKING up Johnny. Seven-fifteen, when he stepped out the front entrance of Randy’s, was a busy time, parking attendants in their red jackets jumping in cars to gun ’em out of there. The Mutt said to one of ’em, “Hey, boy, bring Mr. Agley’s Caddy you come back, hear?” Shit, it must’ve taken him fifteen minutes, pulled up in the car and the Mutt said, “What’s wrong with you, taking so long?” This Tootsie Roll sassed him, saying, “I couldn’t find it, boy.” And the Mutt remembered Randy telling him one time to quit calling the parking attendants “boy,” saying, “Colored guys don’t like it, they hear it as a term of disrespect. You didn’t call ’em ‘boy’ in prison, did you?” The Mutt said he didn’t call ’em nothing, as he never had a reason to speak to any of ’em. Then, to make it worse, he couldn’t locate the entrance to the goddamn MGM Grand gambling casino on the first pass and had to go around again, the freeway right there messing him up. He thought Johnny would be sore ’cause he was late. Uh-unh . . .

  Getting in the car as the Mutt slid over, Johnny said the only thing he needed to know, “You got it?”

  The Mutt handed him a fat wad of bills and Johnny had to face the fact the guy was serious, there was a hit going down and he was driving the fuckin car. Johnny took time to open the wad and riffle one end. All hundreds. He said, “Well, all right,” to get himself with it, show the Mutt he was cool. “What time you got?”

  The Mutt had to work his watch out of the sleeves of his leather coat and his bodyshirt. He held it close to the Cadillac instrument panel, in front of the digital clock, and said, “A quarter of.”

  They were moving now, making their way through the west side of downtown, Johnny thinking, Lafayette or Fort Street over to Woodward, hang a right to Jefferson . . . He said, “Where’d you get the Caddy? Man, it’s still got that new-car smell in it.”

  “It’s Randy’s.”

  “Jesus Christ—he know you took it?”

  “I asked was he going anywheres, he said no.”

  “You realize if somebody at the scene, anybody, a witness, spots the license plate the cops’ll trace it back to him?”

  “I was Randy I’d say the car was stolen.”

  “What if they trace it to you?”

  “I’d tell ’em Randy don’t allow me to drive the car. Anybody says I took it’s a liar, wanting to get me ’cause they say I disrespect ’em calling ’em ‘boy.’ ”

  “The fuck’re you talking about?”

  “It don’t matter.”

  Johnny said, “Lemme guess. Randy’s the one gave you the contract.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But has no idea you took his car.”

  “What he don’t know won’t hurt him, will it?”

  “Randy get you the gun?”

  “The one I’m gonna use? I don’t have it yet.”

  It got Johnny agitated again and he had to stay cool. “What’re you talking about? We have to stop and pick it up?”

  “Uh-unh, the guy I’m supposed to hit? He’s giving it to me.”

  Johnny couldn’t think of the next question ’cause there were too many next questions. In a way then he changed the subject, asking the Mutt, “Who’s this you gonna hit? You know him?”

  “Yeah, Mr. Moraco.”

  And Johnny said, “Jesus Christ—hey, come on.”

  “Randy hates him.”

  “I imagine, yeah, if it’s worth twenty-five grand have him taken out.” Big numbers, Johnny feeling the wad in his pocket, making a big-time move with this goofball calling the shots. He said, “And it’s Vincent giving you the piece to use?”

  “Yeah, for the other one.”

  “That’s right, I forgot.”

  “We keep going after this one’s done.”

  Johnny’s brain was still trying to handle the idea, Jesus Christ, of driving this hayseed to hit Vincent Moraco. “But he doesn’t know, Vincent doesn’t—no, there’s no way.”

  “What?”

  “Or he wouldn’t be giving you the fuckin gun.”

  “ ‘Course not, he don’t suspect shit.”

  Johnny was learning you had to pay close attention to what the Mutt said and ask the right question. Then it made sense, even if you still couldn’t fuckin believe it.

  They were on Jefferson now heading east past the Renaissance Center’s cluster of glass towers, the city’s skyline. It was a nice evening, fifty-five degrees out. Johnny settled down. He was here, he might as well go through with it. Christ, five grand—it couldn’t take that long. He wouldn’t have to get out of the car . . .

  “Okay, you’re gonna clip Vincent Moraco.”

  “Yes sir, shoot him in the head, make sure.”

  “He hands you the gun and you pop him.”

  “I collect my money first.”

  “Mutt, you want to make sure the gun’s loaded.”

  “That’s a good point. Man, I don’t want to shoot him and all I hear’s click click. Yeah, that’s a good thing to remember, check it first.”

  Johnny thinking, The fuck’m I doing here?

  Terry in his black suit and Roman collar, ready to go, stood at the front window in the living room, anxious. Fran, coping with his mountain of work, called to say he wouldn’t be home before eight. The girls’d had their supper and were in the library watching MTV. Mary Pat was in the kitchen. When the Chrysler Town Car pulled up to the front door Terry checked his watch. It was seven thirty-five. He saw Vito Genoa get out and come up on the stoop to ring the bell. Debbie wasn’t in the car. In the foyer Terry called, “I’m going now,” and Mary Pat came out through the dining room. She asked when he’d be home. He said he had no idea. Mary Pat said he should’ve eaten something. He said he still wasn’t hungry. Vito Genoa nodded to him as he came out. Terry asked if they were picking up Debbie. Vito said another guy was getting her. Terry said he wondered, wouldn’t it have been easier if one car picked them both up. Vito said easier for who? Terry sat in back during the forty-minute ride down and over freeways to the east side and the Pointes. He made conversation.

  “You know why I thought you were in Star of the Sea parish?”

  “You went there?” Vito looking at the mirror.

  “I went to Queen of Peace. But you remember Balduck Park and the hill? Used to be full of sleds and toboggans in the winter? You and I were in a fight there one time.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I was eleven, you were a couple years older.”

  “You saying I started it?”

  “You did it all the time, picked on kids smaller’n you were. Vito, you were a big fuckin bully.”

  It got Vito looking at the mirror.

  “Me and you had a fight, uh? Who won?”

  “I gave you a bloody nose, but you hit me till I couldn’t get up.”

  “That was you, uh? I remember that one.”

  “You get in a fight,” Terry said, “I remember how much your hands hurt, after.”

  “Yeah, your fuckin hands. You learn to carry a sap.”

  “I remember later on seeing your picture in the sports section, when you were at Denby and made All-State. What were you, a defensive tackle?”

  “Linebacker.”

  “Right. You must’ve got some offers.”

  “Couple. But I wasn’t going nowhere.”

  They rode in silence for a while.

  “You’re one of the defendants in the RICO trial?”

  “I been out on bond three years while they fuck around.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Nowhere. We’re gonna walk.”

  The cigarette business came to mind and Terry almost mentioned it, but then thought, Why? You trying to get this guy to like you?

  There was a silence again. Moving east in the dark, headlights approaching out of the distance.

  “So you live in Africa, uh?”

  “Five
years.”

  “I wouldn’t want no parts of fuckin Africa you give it to me.”

  “Parts are pretty nice. Except for the bugs. I had a hard time getting used to the bugs, giant ones, every kind of bug there is.”

  Vito’s eyes showed in the mirror.

  “When you going back?”

  “I think pretty soon.”

  Vito said, “I think so, too.”

  Terry hesitated. He said, “Oh?” and sat in the dark, waiting for the man’s eyes to appear.

  Debbie worked hard to get her driver to talk, a young guy who wore sunglasses at night. Great.

  “How long’ve you been with the mob?”

  He had to think about it before he said, “What mob you talking about?”

  “How about the Detroit mob? Since that’s where we are.”

  “Why you want to know?”

  “I’m making conversation.” Asshole. “You ever been to prison?”

  Now he had to think that one over before saying, “That’s my business.”

  “I’ll bet you never have.”

  “I don’t plan to.”

  “I have,” Debbie said. “Aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. I put a guy in the hospital.” She waited. “You want to know what I hit him with?”

  “What?”

  “A Buick Riviera.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He was my ex. I was in Florida visiting my mother and I saw him crossing the street right in front of me. He’s over a year behind on child support and had no intention of ever paying up.”

  “You run over him?”

  “He got caught underneath the car and I dragged him about a hundred feet.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I said to the arresting officer, ‘But the light was green. I had the right of way.’ He shouldn’t have been crossing then.”

  “Not if you had the green, no.”

  “They bring the guy to the courtroom in his body cast and I was fucked.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I was down three years. Ask me if hitting him was worth it?”

  “Was it?”

  “No. What’s your name?”

  “Tommy.”

  “Don’t ever go to prison, Tommy, if you can help it.”

  There was a silence for a while.

  “What’s it like being a gangster?”

  Johnny told the Mutt his dad used to work down here at Eaton Chemical, gone now; they made dyes and different dry-cleaning products. Man, it was dark down here, huh? The whole area gone to hell, the warehouses, you couldn’t tell if they were shut down or doing business or what. They turned onto Franklin, creeping, following the headlight beams along this street where Eaton Chemical used to be. Johnny said his dad’d come home his hands’d be all stained. Once he got burned pretty bad with acid. On his arms. He said, “Okay, you ready? Keep your eyes open.”

  The Mutt said, “I been ready.”

  “There’s a car up there. What time is it?”

  “I just told you. Ten past.”

  “We go by, take a look.”

  Johnny eased down on the accelerator, speeding up to about twenty-five as they passed the car, parked there with its lights off.

  “It’s him,” the Mutt said.

  Johnny looked back. “There two guys in the car.”

  “Yeah, he’s got some guy driving for him.”

  “You said he’d be alone.”

  “I said what he said, meet him here, and he is, he’s here, ain’t he? Like he said.”

  “What about the other guy?”

  “Too bad,” the Mutt said. “I didn’t invite him.”

  “I don’t like it,” Johnny said, slowing down to turn right at the next street. They turned right three more times, Johnny keeping it at fifteen miles an hour, till they were back around on Franklin. Man, it was dark.

  The Mutt said, “Pull up behind.”

  Johnny said, “I’m not getting too close. I’m leaving room we have to pull out quick.” He crept up to about twenty feet away before stopping. He could see two guys in there, the driver’s head turned, looking back this way in the Cadillac’s headlights.

  “Cut the lights,” the Mutt said.

  “I want to see what you’re doing,” Johnny said. “You never know, this kind of deal.”

  The Mutt got out and Johnny watched him walk up to the passenger side of the car and stand there at the window talking to Vincent, Vincent handing the Mutt something he put inside his leather coat. That would be the twenty-five hundred. Now they were talking again. Now the Mutt was holding something, looking at it. Johnny believed it must be the piece. Now Vincent’s hand came out the window. He took the piece from the Mutt, brought it inside the car and handed it back to him. The Mutt turned with it now, Jesus Christ, aiming it this way in the headlights, then turned again to the car and that’s when Johnny heard the shots, pow-pow. Loud, Jesus, and then two more, pow-pow, quick ones, the Mutt holding the piece inside the car to shoot the other guy, the driver. Johnny thinking now, Okay, let’s get the fuck outta here. But now the Mutt was walking around the back of the car looking this way and motioning—like he was trying to tell what he was doing, which told absolutely fuckin nothing—as he went around to the driver’s side, opened the door and the guy’s body started to slide out. The Mutt hefted him back in, then stuck his head and shoulders in there over the guy, and when he straightened up Johnny could see the Mutt had a gun in each hand, aiming ’em both this way and grinning in the Cadillac’s headlights. Johnny pulled up next to him.

  “Get in the fuckin car, will you?”

  The Mutt got in and Johnny took off before the door was closed, Johnny looking at the dark, dead street in his rearview mirror, nothing coming behind them. He said, “Jesus Christ, who was the other guy?”

  “I never seen him before,” the Mutt said, “some fella. He’s the first one I done I didn’t know.” And said, “No, I take that back. I didn’t know the Chaldean I did, the fella I told you ran a book? I never knew his name.”

  “What’d you take the gun for, wasting time like that?”

  The Mutt held up a .38 with a short barrel in his right hand. “Mr. Moraco gimme this snubby saying it’s loaded, but they’s only five bullets in it. I asked him did he have any more. He says if I needed more’n five shots I was the wrong guy for the job and should give him his money back. I said to him, ‘Yeah, but I have to use some of ’em now,’ and shot him in the head. Then I had to shoot the other fella and that left only one load, see, for the next job. So I was hoping the driver had a gun on him and he did, this one, a automatic.”

  “That’s a Glock,” Johnny said, “you got more’n you need in there, like fifteen shots.”

  “Okay, Randy said get on Seventy-five and take it north to Big Beaver. You know where it’s at?”

  “Yeah, it’s like Sixteen Mile Road. Then what?”

  “Take a left on over to Woodward. I got to look at the directions for the rest.”

  “We’re going out to Bloomfield Hills?”

  “Yeah, he’s staying out there with his brother.”

  Johnny braked, hit the pedal hard, rubber screamed on the pavement, the Mutt threw his hands out holding the guns, his hands hit the glove box and he dropped both of the guns. Johnny held on to the steering wheel looking at the Mutt bent over feeling around on the floor.

  “Terry Dunn’s the hit?”

  The Mutt, still down there, said, “Yeah, the priest. Turn the light on.”

  “You can’t do Terry, he’s a friend of mine.”

  The Mutt came up holding one of the guns, the snubby, saying, “Hey, I can’t help it, I got paid to do him.”

  “He’s my friend, Mutt,” Johnny looking straight ahead now, past his knuckles on the steering wheel to traffic going both ways on Jefferson Avenue, maybe a hundred feet away. He said, “Jesus Christ,” shaking his head.

  The Mutt said, “You driving me or not?”

  “You can’t do this one, Mutt. Pass on it—he
’s leaving anyway, going back to Africa.”

  “You driving me or not?”

  “No, I’m not driving you—you crazy?”

  “Then gimme my money back.”

  “Well, shit, I drove you this far.”

  The Mutt put the gun on him. “Gimme my money back.”

  Johnny got the wad out of his side coat pocket and handed it over. The Mutt took it still pointing the gun at him, Johnny watching him now, watching the gun, the guy making up his mind, Christ, and right on the edge of what he was going to do. Johnny slipped his hand from the steering wheel, the left one, and laid it on the door handle. He said, “Okay, then the deal’s off, you got your money . . . You find your other gun? Look under the seat.”

  The Mutt reached down between his legs, head bent, and Johnny shoved against the door, going out as it swung open and the window shattered with the sound of that .38 going off inside the car and Johnny was running back down the street into the dark, thanking Jesus, Mary and Joseph it was the snubby the Mutt picked up off the floor, one shot left in it, and not the other one.

  By the time the Mutt had the Glock in his hand his ears were ringing, he couldn’t hear nothing, he couldn’t see nothing looking through the rear window at the dark street back there. No sign of Johnny, so no sense in chasing after him. What he should do, the Mutt decided, was get on the freeway and head north. Get to the priest before Johnny called him up and said he was coming.

  25

  * * *

  VITO BROUGHT TERRY INSIDE. He said to a young guy in sunglasses standing in the hall, “Put your car around back.” He said to Terry, “Wait in there.”

  The living room. Debbie turned from the fireplace as he went over to her. “You been here long?”

  “A few minutes. Tony stuck his head in and said hi.”

  “He did?”

  “I was surprised, too. He said, ‘Be with you soon as the photographer gets set up.’ ”

  “We’re gonna have a ceremony, huh, the presenting of the check?”