Cold Shot to the Heart

by Wallace Stroby

  He stuck the gun in his belt, got his keys out, and tossed them to her.

  “Go get the car, bring it around front,” he said. “I’ll handle it.”

  He took the slapjack back out, looked down at Stimmer, and then bent over him. His arm rose and fell. Stimmer groaned again, then went silent.

  She picked up the knapsack, went out the front door. Behind her, she could hear the sound of weighted leather on flesh. Chance grunting with each blow, Stimmer not making any noise at all.

  * * *

  She waited with the lights off, the engine running. Chance came out of the darkness of the side yard, opened the passenger door, and got in. She pulled away.

  “How’d you leave him?” she said.

  “He won’t walk too well for a while. And I did his ribs pretty good. He could die from that, I guess, if we’re lucky.”

  To the east, dawn was a red glow on the horizon.

  “Find a bridge somewhere,” he said. “I need to get rid of this gun and the slapjack. And we should whack up the rest of that money.”

  “That’ll be simple,” she said. “Sixty-nine thousand, seven hundred and twenty each.” That would bring her split to $209,160.

  “What time’s your train?” he said.

  “Eight ten.”

  “No problem.”

  They drove back toward Fort Lauderdale in silence. She lowered the visor, checked her face in the mirror. There was a faint bruise on the left side of her jaw, finger marks on her neck. Makeup would hide them.

  “You know,” he said, “we may have taken him out of commission for a while, but he won’t give up. Way we left it, sooner or later he’ll come looking for us.”

  “Let him,” she said.

  * * *

  She got into New York the next day, tired and sore, her jaw aching. She’d slept fitfully on the train, her legs restless.

  She carried her suitcase and shoulder bag through Penn Station, rode the escalator up into a bitter wind. A street-corner Santa rang his bell over a red plastic chimney. She dropped a five in, joined the line of people at the taxi stand.

  Twenty minutes later, she was in her apartment, ears still stinging from the cold. She was exhausted but too wired to sleep. She left the bags in the living room, opened a bottle of wine. She filled a glass, carried it into the bedroom, and booted up the laptop.

  A Google search on “Fort Lauderdale” and “robbery” brought her to the South Florida Sun-Sentinel Web site. The story was the third down on the Local News page: NEW JERSEY MAN KILLED IN BROWARD HOLDUP. The story was bare bones, five paragraphs, no quotes. A Louis Letteri of Belleville, New Jersey, had been shot to death in an armed robbery at the La Paloma hotel in Fort Lauderdale Beach. There was no mention of a card game. Police were seeking witnesses.

  She sipped wine, ran another search on “Louis Letteri,” came up with nothing.

  When she went back into the living room to refill her glass, the black cat with the torn ear was at the window. It had come up the fire escape, was perched on the ledge, watching her.

  It backed away when she neared the window. She undid the locks, pushed up the sash and storm window.

  “You might as well come in,” she said. “The damage is done.”

  The cat leaped from the sill to the floor, brushed against her legs. It moved around the room, evaluating its surroundings. She shut the window, locked it.

  When she turned, the cat was lying on the futon, watching her warily.

  You’ve got the right idea, she thought. Grab a warm place to sleep when you can, but don’t trust anyone too much.

  She let the cat have the futon, turned the radio on, the volume low, Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata coming soft from the speakers.

  She went into the bedroom, cracked a Lunesta in half, washed it down with wine. She pulled off her boots, lay on the comforter fully clothed. She could still feel the rocking of the train, but the pain in her jaw was fading.

  She closed her eyes, let the wine and music take her, the miles and anxiety of the past week slipping away. In seconds, she was asleep.

  FOURTEEN

  The girl couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Eddie watched her from the bed as she dressed, pissed that Tino’s man had sent over someone so young. She was Puerto Rican, dark and skinny, but with flesh where it mattered. They hadn’t talked much. He’d done her twice before he’d asked her name.

  Now she was brushing her hair in the motel room mirror, ignoring him. She wore a black blouse, tight jeans, and heels.

  “Maria,” he said.

  She didn’t turn.

  “That’s your name, right?”

  “Marisol.” She kept brushing.

  He pushed the sheets away, got up, walked naked to the desk. Tino had sent a bottle of Glenlivet as well. Eddie dropped ice cubes into a motel glass, poured an inch of Scotch. The bottle was still half full.

  “You have something for me?” she said.

  “Didn’t Tino take care of you?”

  “I don’t know any Tino. Is Esteban gave me the address.”

  “You don’t know any Tino. But you know Nicky, right? Tino’s son?”

  “Sí. I know Nicholas.”

  He sipped Scotch. “You fuck him?”

  She pulled on a puffy red jacket.

  “It’s not nice to talk that way,” she said. “Nicholas has been very good to me.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “Bullshit.”

  She buttoned the jacket, stood there waiting.

  He put the glass on the nightstand, next to the phone Nicky had given him. He got his wallet from his coat.

  “How much?” he said.

  “Two hundred.”

  He counted out twenties, looked at her. She was chewing gum. He found himself stirring again. He folded the bills, dropped them beside the glass.

  “Come here.”

  “Anything now is extra.”

  “Take off that coat.”

  She did, hung it on a chair. With her back to him, she started to undress. He thought about going over there, hitting her hard in the face, knocking the attitude out of her, then doing her right there on the carpet.

  When she got the jeans off, he saw the finger marks he’d left on her hips and thighs, tiny bruised spots.

  “Leave the thong on,” he said. “Come over here.”

  He thought about calling Terry, inviting him over to tear off a piece while she was here, wondered if he’d do it.

  She stood in front of him.

  “Don’t fucking look at me like that,” he said. “Get on your knees.”

  “That’s fifty more.” She took the gum out.

  “You know something? Esteban won’t protect you. Neither will Nicky. They don’t give a shit about you. They gave you to me.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “I could do anything I wanted to you. I could kill you right here and they wouldn’t care. They’d help me get rid of your body.” The bored look was gone now, the first trace of fear in her eyes.

  “That’s not true,” she said.

  He held his hands out, turned them over to show her the veins, the knobbed knuckles.

  “See these?” he said. “I could beat you bloody with these. Break your ribs, your arms. Your jaw. Do whatever I wanted.”

  She looked back at the door.

  “You’d never make it,” he said.

  The phone on the nightstand began to ring.

  * * *

  Terry steered the El Camino into the supermarket lot. Only the black SUV back here now. It was almost midnight. After he’d spoken with Nicky, Eddie had sent the whore away with her money, called Terry.

  Terry parked, killed the lights. Eddie took the Star from the small of his back, eased the slide back to check there was a round in the chamber. He slipped the gun in a coat pocket.

  “You bringing that in?” Terry said.

  “You never know. If it sounds like things are going bad, hau
l ass out of here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said.” He got out.

  When he reached the rear door, Vincent Rio opened it from inside. The motion sensor light stayed off.

  “Hey,” Rio said.

  Eddie went down the cinder-block hall to the office. Tino was in there alone, a cup of takeout coffee in his hand. He stood as Eddie came in.

  “Thanks for coming so quick,” he said.

  Eddie nodded. Rio moved in behind him at the door.

  “Have a seat,” Tino said. Eddie dragged a folding chair close, sat.

  “I’ll be out back,” Rio said. Tino shut the door behind him.

  “Where’s Nicky?” Eddie said.

  “I didn’t want Nick here. Not for this.”

  Eddie rested his hands on his thighs. The gun was a weight in his coat.

  “A terrible thing has happened,” Tino said. He sat, put the cup on the desk. “You heard about my son-in-law?”

  Eddie shook his head. “Do I know him?”

  “You met him, maybe. One time or another. Lou Letteri, Ginny’s husband.”

  Eddie shrugged.

  “I’m getting too old for this,” Tino said. “I thought I was used to anything, there was nothing I hadn’t seen, couldn’t deal with. But this…”

  “What happened?”

  “Lou’s been down in Florida last few months. He and Ginny weren’t getting along, husband and wife stuff, you know? Nothing serious, except he liked to gamble, on anything, horses, football, cards, whatever. Would drop a hundred grand in Vegas on a weekend without blinking.”

  “Okay,” Eddie said.

  “So he owes money all over the place, you know? Owes me money, too, but I’m his father-in-law, what am I supposed to do? Tell my daughter her husband’s a degenerate gambler, he’s pissing away their kids’ college fund? They’ve got two daughters, Lisa and Linda, ten and six, beautiful little girls.” He tapped his chest. “I love them like you wouldn’t believe.”

  Eddie looked at the TV screen. Rio stood by the back door, smoking a cigarette. He looked up into the camera lens, as if he could see them inside. Eddie looked back at Tino.

  “So he’s down there in Florida, doing some things for me, but mainly staying out of trouble, taking it easy. A time-out for him and Ginny, you know? And he gets involved in this weekly card game down there, high rollers. He shouldn’t even be in it, God knows where he got the money, but he can’t stay away. So night before last, he’s playing, some hotel in Fort Lauderdale, and the game gets knocked over. Pros.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Report I got. Or almost pros, I should say. Lou’s problem, his whole life, he can’t keep his mouth shut. The heisters are in there, waving their guns around—one’s got a rifle—and he starts giving them shit. One of them gets itchy. Boom. Right there at the table.”

  “They shot him?”

  Tino nodded.

  “Dead?”

  “We’re flying his body back up here this week. My daughter’s a wreck. The girls … what can you tell them?”

  “Sounds like he was in the wrong place, wrong time.”

  “Exactly. But it doesn’t make it easier, for anyone.”

  “They get away?”

  Tino nodded.

  “Anyone else hurt?”

  “Just Lou. They took off right after that. Got all the money, though. A half million, I’m hearing.”

  “That’s a heavy card game. And they knew when to hit it.”

  “Like I said, pros. They all wore masks, got out of there quick. The other players, too. Most of them were gone before the cops showed up.”

  “What do the police say?”

  “Not much so far. But I have friends down there.”

  “And?”

  “The crew that did it was from out of town,” Tino said. “I got a name. The one that ran it, put it together. Same one that pulled the trigger.”

  “Where’s he from?”

  “Up here. Staten Island.”

  “He connected?”

  “Not in any way that matters.”

  “Why’d you call me?”

  “Who else can I trust?”

  Eddie sat back. “Got out just in time, didn’t I? What about Nicky? You’d think he’d want in on this, family and all.”

  “Nick’s no good for this. Like I said, this guy was a pro. Nick’s a good kid, but…”

  “You don’t want him involved in something that could go bad.”

  “He’s my son. Is that wrong?”

  “I guess not. What’s in it?”

  “Thirty. But it needs to be soon. There needs to be a message.”

  “Forty. I’ve got a partner.”

  “That kid?”

  Eddie nodded.

  “Do it for thirty,” Tino said, “and keep whatever you find on him. There’s got to be a chunk left from that game.”

  “You’re bargaining.”

  “So?”

  “I thought this was about family.”

  “It is.”

  “Forty. I just got out. I need to get back on my feet. I’ll take twenty up front. The rest when it’s done.”

  Tino raised his hands, let them fall. “Forty. But like I said, it needs to be quick. The faster, the better. Just find him and do it.”

  “What about the rest of his crew?”

  “Don’t worry about them. They’re all over the country by now anyway. Besides, those people have no loyalty to each other. They won’t care what happens to him. No, just the one. The one that pulled the trigger. The one that planned it.”

  “What’s the name?”

  “Victor Stimmer. You know him?”

  Eddie shook his head.

  “Word is he’s back up here already,” Tino said.

  “Why?”

  “Maybe he’s got noplace else to go.”

  “You have an address?”

  “He owns an electronics store on Amboy Road. Lives nearby. I’ve got a photo of him, too. Bald guy, blue eyes, hard to miss. He gets wind someone’s looking for him, though, he’ll take off. Another reason it needs to be quick.”

  “When do I get the twenty?”

  “Tomorrow morning, if you want. Nick will bring it where you’re staying. The picture, too.”

  “Okay.” He stood.

  “You’re like a son to me,” Tino said, “and I want you to know that. There was no one else I could go to with this. No one else I could trust.”

  Eddie nodded, opened the door.

  “You’ve got nothing to worry about,” he said. “I’ll handle it.”

  * * *

  Vincent Rio was still at the rear door. Eddie nodded at him, went out to the El Camino. As they pulled out of the lot, Terry said, “How’d it go?”

  Eddie rolled down his window, felt the cold air on his face. “About as expected. I guess I never learn.”

  “Learn what?”

  “Never mind.”

  “What did he want? He have something for us?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What is it?”

  “What I thought,” Eddie said. “Nigger work.”

  FIFTEEN

  She was coming out of the D’Agostino’s on 110th, plastic grocery bags dangling from both hands, when her cell began to buzz. She backed into a gated doorway, out of the flow of people on the sidewalk, juggled the bags to get the phone out. Hector. It buzzed again, then went quiet.

  When she got home, the cat was curled on the futon. It leaped off as she came in, slunk into the kitchen, watching her over its shoulder. She fed it every day, but it still wouldn’t let her touch it.

  She left the bags on the living room floor, called Hector back. He picked up on the second ring.

  “Hola,” she said. “I owe you something, I know. I have it.”

  “Not why I called. Can we meet?”

  “What’s up?”

  “Better in person.”

  “This about work? If so, I’m not
interested.”

  “Old work, not new.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I’m midtown right now, I can be up your way in about twenty.”

  She didn’t like that, but there was no use asking more over the phone.

  “Call me when you get up here,” she said. “I’ll tell you where I’ll be.”

  * * *

  At the Starbucks on 114th, she got a high table by the window, had a clear view up and down Broadway. The rest of the tables were occupied by students, most reading or tapping on laptops. She set the paper Garden of Eden bag at her feet, blew steam from her tea.

  She saw him from a block away. He crossed Broadway against the light, came in. She cocked her head at the counter. He nodded and joined the line.

  When he carried his cup to the table, she said, “Take a seat. Just relax for a couple minutes. Drink your coffee.”

  He nodded, sat across from her, popped the lid from his cup. He blew on it, sipped.

  “Cold out there,” he said. “What happened to your jaw?”

  “Walked into something. No big deal.”

  “That happen down there?”

  She drank tea, didn’t answer. He put his cup down, unzipped his flight jacket. He held it open, then raised his sweatshirt for a moment to show her his bare chest and stomach, pulled it down again.

  She looked around to see if anyone else had noticed. “That wasn’t really necessary. But if you enjoy it…”

  He shrugged. “Can’t be too careful, right?”

  “So, old work.”

  “I don’t have a lot of information yet. Just wanted to share what I know.”

  “Share.”

  “The guy that got dealt out of the game down south … he was somebody.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Connected. He was from up here, across the river.”

  “Jersey?”

  He nodded, sipped coffee. “One of my brother’s old partners moves in those circles sometimes. Word was getting around.”

  “And?”

  “It checks out.”

  “How connected?”

  “Close. Family.”

  “Nothing like that in the news stories. I’ve been checking every day.”

  “It’s true, though.”

  She sat back, looked out the window, watched steam rise from manhole covers. She felt the first stirrings of an upset stomach, the tea not sitting well.