The Contractor

by Paul Moomaw

  At the beginning of the evening I call Skeeter. She is at home and tells me to come over about nine. I show up fairly close to that and ring her doorbell. She calls from inside to come in, the door is open. I walk through and she is waiting for me in a silk bathrobe that drops to just above her knees and is open at the neck to reveal the roundness of her breasts. Matisse sits next to her and wags his tail when he sees me. I close the door and start to cross the room to her and suddenly Matisse growls. I am confused at first and then I realize he is not looking at me, but past me. I take two steps forward and spin around just in time to see two men who have moved in behind me. The closest one has a sap and has already started to swing, but my sudden move forward has cost him his balance and now the swing becomes a lunge. The sap slices past my head but lands hard on my shoulder and my whole arm feels like it is on fire. He swings again and I cross my forearms and catch his wrist between them and then grab his hand and strip the sap away. The shock of contact makes my arm hurt even more but I manage to sweep a kick into the side of his left leg just below the knee and he staggers, then starts falling as my left hand tugs at his wrist. As he starts to go down I slam the sap against the base of his skull and he grunts and falls on his face. The other goon is reaching into his coat and I throw the sap as hard as I can at his face. It misses and he grins wickedly and pulls out the pistol he was reaching for. Then a snarling shadow bolts between my legs and Matisse is on him, sinking his teeth into the goons ankle. The goon makes the mistake of swinging at Matisse with his gun and that gives me time to charge him. I slam the upper edge of my hand into his nuts. He doubles over and I crack my elbow up into his face. I can hear his nose break and he screams. I grab his forearm with my left hand and slide my fingers down to his gun while my right fist sinks into his abdomen. He loosens his grip on the gun and I grab it and step back. It is a Browning 380 caliber pistol with a silencer.

  The goon straightens up and glares at me. He is breathing harshly and blood is streaming down his face from the broken nose. He charges and I pull the trigger, but the idiot has left the safety on. I slam the barrel across his temple and he drops to the floor. He grabs at my legs and almost takes me down as I push the safety off. I shove the barrel into the back of his neck and pull the trigger. The gun fires with a soft pop and the goon stiffens. I put another bullet into him, this time right through the top of his head, and he dies. I turn to the other man, who is lying on the floor, holding his head and moaning. I shoot him once in the back of the head. Then I turn to face Skeeter. She sits on the floor, her back pressed against the leg of a chair. Her face is pale and her eyes are wide with fear and shock. I motion toward the men.

  “Is this what had you tied up?”

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t want to do this. They told me I had to let them know the next time you called, and then give them time to get someone here. They didn’t give me a lot of options. Just two, in fact.”

  I understand what she is saying. I feel sad. I have trusted her as much as anyone, which does not say a lot; but she has been a constant in my life. Now that is gone.

  “I’m sorry, too. I wish this could be different.”

  She nods. She knows what I mean without my having to say it.

  “I have a brother in Minneapolis,” she says. “He’s my only family. Can you let him know?”

  “I can do that.”

  She glances across the room. “My purse is over there. I have a notepad and pen in it. I’ll write down his name and telephone number for you.”

  I go to the purse and open it.

  “In the little side pouch,” she says.

  I unzip the side pocket and find a small spiral notepad and a heavy pen of silver and brass. I take them to her.

  “Thanks,” she says. She opens the notepad. Then she takes the pen in both hands and points it at me. She presses something and a cloud of Mace rushes at me. I sprint to one side but I still get a whiff of it in my face. My eyes begin to burn and I can feel my throat trying to close. Skeeter throws the pen at me and struggles to get up off the floor. She has gotten part way to her feet when I shoot her. She goes down and begins to cry, loud, tearing sobs. I step over to her and I see that the bullet struck her close to the shoulder. I take a deep breath and my lungs protest. I place the barrel of the gun against her chest where I can be sure to hit her heart. She looks up at me, a deep sadness in her eyes. “I wish . . .” she says. Her voice is ragged and weak. “… I wish it didn’t have to be you.”

  I wish that, too, but I do not say anything. Skeeter closes her eyes and I pull the trigger. She jerks once and falls back dead.

  I go to her bathroom and rinse my face and eyes with cool water. It only makes my eyes burn more at first, but after several splashes of water and the aid of a wet face cloth the pain fades. I look in the mirror. My eyes are as red as coals, but that will go away in an hour or so. I use the cloth to wipe the pistol down as thoroughly as I can, then dry it with a face towel. I hold it in the towel as I return to the other room. I drop the gun next to one of the goons. Then I remember the sap. I pick it up and take it to the bathroom and wipe it down, too. Then I go back and toss it next to the gun.

  All at once the adrenalin drains out and I feel shaky and weak. I sit down on the floor cross-legged and look at Matisse, who is standing over Skeeter whimpering. Then he leaves her and walks slowly toward me. He looks at Skeeter again and then settles onto the carpet and rests his muzzle on my foot.

  “Poor damn pup,” I say to him. “You saved my life and now I’ve stolen your living.” I scratch his ears and he moans a little, and I realize I cannot leave him here. I owe him something better than that. I get up and search the place until I find his leash and choke chain collar. As soon as he hears the chain clink he rouses himself and trots toward me. I slip the collar on, take the leash in my hand, and walk to the front door.

  I reach the door and open it. Matisse sticks close to my legs. I pause to look back at the death I have caused. I do not care about the men. They put themselves in harm’s way. I realize I have made a pun, and that would please me any other time. Now, as I look at Skeeter I can feel nothing, no pleasure, no sadness; but I know she will leave a hole inside me, and I am surprised to sense how big that hole is.

  Matisse tugs at his leash. He wants to leave and I cannot blame him. I step through the door and close it behind me, then go downstairs and out onto the street. It is still early and people stroll by, wrapped up in their own concerns. To them I am just another nameless Seattle-ite out for the evening. That is how it should be and ordinarily I would take pleasure in my anonymity; but this evening it does not feel good.

  * * *

  When I get home I take the leash off Matisse and he begins to explore the place. I have no dog food, but there is some ground lamb in the refrigerator. I take it out and give it a minute in the microwave, then put it onto a plate and for Matisse. He eats eagerly. I watch him for a moment and then pour a brandy and sit at my window looking down at the city. The memory of Skeeter’s closed eyes as she waited to die will not leave me, no matter how hard I try to push it away. There are no feelings with the vision, not even sadness, although I know that I must be sad. I recall that she was going to give me her brother’s name and telephone, and feel a twinge of something for a moment; but then I tell myself that she probably did not have a brother. She just wanted to get at her little tear gas pen. It doesn’t matter now. She is dead and the dead have no regrets.

  I try to concentrate on Bach. This is a time to let the music drift around me and collect myself. But tonight Bach might as well be Little Richard, and all I do is drink too much and eventually go to bed. The dream snatches me awake in the middle of the night, my heart beating so hard I worry that I am having an attack. Gradually it slows, and I stare for a long time into a dark red emptiness until I am finally able to sleep again.

  The ring of my telephone wakes me two hours later. I grope for the phone and pick it up to hear Katherine’s voice.

/>   “I know it’s late,” she says. “But I just got in and wanted to hear your voice. Is that all right?”

  “I’m glad you called. I want to see you.”

  “Same here, but you sound like you still need some sleep. So do I. Some company for breakfast would be nice.”

  “What can I bring?”

  “Surprise me,” she says. We say goodbye, and I hold the handset in my palm for another few moments. I realize that I do not really believe I could do anything that would surprise her. It is as if, in such a short time, she has gotten to know every inch of me.

  Chapter 51

  In the morning it is raining, one of those slow Seattle drizzles that go on for days. I dress and make a pot of coffee that I pour into a big insulated carafe. While the coffee is brewing I go to a steamer trunk that has sat for years at the foot of the bed in my spare bedroom and unlock it. The trunk holds the tools of my trade—pick sets, false identification documents including passports, and weapons. It also contains a treasure: the necklace that I took from Irina’s father. I take out the box with the necklace and re-lock the trunk. Then I take it and the coffee and go out. On the way to Katherine’s house I stop by Ken’s Market and pick up bagels, lox and cream cheese. When I get back to the car I slip the box with the necklace into the grocery sack.

  Katherine opens the front door as I get out of my car. She comes outside and takes the bag of food and looks inside.

  “What’s in the box?”

  “You said to surprise you.” he nods and heads back into the house. I follow with the coffee.

  She puts the grocery sack on the kitchen counter and pulls out the bagels.

  “I’ll toast these,” she says. “I’m good at toasting.”

  When the bagels are ready I pour coffee for us and we go to the dining room table. I take the box with the necklace with me. Katherine looks at it speculatively but does not mention it. I take a bagel, cut it into fourths and spread cream cheese on each slice. Then I take pieces of lox, fold them to fit each quarter and press them onto the cheese.

  “So precise,” Katherine says.

  “Your brother calls me a neat freak.”

  “Forget my brother.”

  “I wish I could,” I reply. I toy with a piece of bagel for a moment, then say, “Some things have happened.”

  Katherine asks what things, and I begin to tell her about the incident at Skeeter’s. I intend to give only a bare outline, but as I talk the words start spilling out and soon I am telling her everything. The scold inside me tells me to shut up, but I have no control. It is as if someone else is talking and I am only listening, amazed. It is as if the part of me that knows where my feelings live has opened the door and let them out. I find myself talking about anger. Anger at the Mob. Anger at Edward Angwin. And sadness. That surprises me the most, the sadness that wells out as I describe the last minutes with Skeeter.

  At one point Katherine says, “Could you have let her live?”

  “She was one more dot that the Mob could connect. I couldn’t chance it. But I wish it could have been different.”

  “Eddy’s another dot, isn’t he?”

  “More than you realize. He got my name from the wise guys to begin with, so they know he’s linked to me, and he knows my real name.”

  “They don’t know?”

  “They never have. I have always been a guy named Hyde to them.”

  We sit silently for a long time, then Katherine jumps up and says, “Let’s take a walk.”

  “In the rain?”

  “Sure. I love walking in the rain.” She goes to a closet and pulls out a jacket and an umbrella. “Goretex for me and this for you.”

  I sigh and get up from the chair. I do not love walking in the rain.

  “Only a short one.”

  “You bet,” she says.

  The walk is not short. By the time we reach the Burke Gilman Trail my muscles are thanking me for the exercise after hours in cars the last few days. There is no wind and the umbrella keeps me dry enough. We walk without talking for a while and then she says, “Tell me about your trip. Was it really the last one?”

  “Yeah.” I spend a lot of time telling her about the drive and the scenery and finally get to killing Washburn. I tell her about our conversation, and about the Timmy in his little cart.

  “He was waiting for you, wasn’t he?” Katherine says. “You think he wanted to die?”

  Her prescience is striking, and I realize that she is right. I had not give it a lot of thought, but I am suddenly certain that Washburn saw through me. He knew why I was coming and was waiting for me. I shiver a little.

  “Cold?”

  “No.” I am shivering because I have just had one more sign that it is time to quit. I feel as if I walked into Washburn’s presence with a big sign that said, KILLER, and now I wonder who else can see it.

  Katherine takes my hand and squeezes it, then lets it go. “So now you’ll just sit in splendor at your house, listening to Bach and watching the view over the Olympics.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think I can stay in Seattle. It’s a big town, but not that big. The Mob has a long reach, and I’m a problem for them. I know where too many bodies are buried.”

  “Where would you go?” Katherine asks.

  “To the Yaak. I’ve always figured I would settle there some day.”

  “It sounds kind of lonely.”

  “I’ve been lonely all my life.” As soon as the words are out I know it is the truth, and it shakes me a little. I have been alone much of my life, but I have never felt lonely. Maybe that other Daniel, that young boy in the pictures, was lonely; but he was someone else.

  “Me, too,” Katherine says. She looks at me and giggles. “Just two lonely people by Seattle’s cloudy light, right?”

  We walk a little farther and then I say, “Come with me.”

  Katherine does not answer. After a few more paces I stop, grasp her shoulders, and turn her to face me. “I want you to come with me.”

  “Come with you for how long?” she asks.

  “For always.” I have never thought about growing old before. The future has always meant no more than tomorrow, or next week, or the next job. If I had thought about it, I probably would have bet that I would never live to grow old. Now, suddenly, I want to, and I want her to grow old with me.

  Katherine shakes her head slowly and looks away. “I don’t believe in always.”

  “You can learn to.”

  “It’s such a long time.”

  “Think about it, please. That’s all I’ll ask right now.”

  In answer, Katherine pulls away from my grasp. “Let’s go back,” she says, and begins to walk.

  When we get back to her house Katherine picks up the box with the necklace.

  “It’s heavy” she says. “Do I open it?”

  I nod and she pulls the cardboard flap out and upends the box, and the necklace slides out onto the table.

  “Jesus.”

  “I’ve had it a long time.”

  “It looks old,” Katherine says.

  “It is.” I tell her the story of Andrei Vyshenko and Irina. My inner scold tells me I am becoming a blabbermouth, but it does not matter. I have kept so many secrets for so long that it feels good to let some of them go. Perhaps that will make room for others, or at least take the pressure off and lessen the need to tell any more.

  Katherine picks the necklace up and swings it slowly in front of her.

  “So this has blood on it,” she says.

  “Probably a couple of hundred years worth.”

  She unfastens the clasp and puts the necklace around her neck.

  “How do I look?”

  “Like a princess.”

  She runs her fingers over the jewels, a distant look in her eyes that I cannot interpret. Suddenly, she says, “I want to go back to Spokane. I want to stay at the Ridpath, and have dinner in their fancy penthouse restaurant, and wear this to make all the other women there jealou
s. Can we?”

  “Sure.” It is clear that she does not want to deal with the idea of the Yaak, and so I hold my peace for now.

  “It won’t matter if the Mob is looking for you. I’ll make the reservation in my name and we’ll drive my car. They’ll never know you were there.”

  “I’m not that worried about the Mob.”

  “Then I’ll worry for you.” She takes the necklace off and stands up.

  “Take a shower with me?” she says, and hold out her hand.

  I let her lead me to the bathroom and we undress. She turns the water on and lets it run until it is steaming hot, then pulls me into the shower stall. We touch and kiss and soap each other down. I get hard as a rock and she rubs her groin against me. Then she grabs my penis and slides it between the lips of her vagina. Everything is soft and wet and slick and I come before I can stop myself. My penis slips out and I finish with my fingers, stroking and pressing until Katherine moans in orgasm.

  We leave the shower and dry off and then Katherine leads me to her bed. We lie together quietly, touching and caressing. Finally Katherine yawns and turns away.

  “I know you can’t promise this,” she says. “And I won’t ask you to. But I hope that as long as I am alive you won’t kill Eddy.”

  Before I can answer she drifts into sleep. I lie next to her and look at the window. I obsess for a while about her, and the cabin in the Yaak, and try to let myself daydream a little about being there together, but nothing comes of it. I tell myself that she will come around, and try to believe that.

  A wind has come up and is spitting raindrops against the glass. It reminds me of Dillon, and Washburn, all at once an odd feeling pours through me. It takes me a while to understand what it is, and when I do I can only shake my head.