Irish Eyes

by Mary Kay Andrews

  She thought about it. “We’re not allowed to take tips.”

  “Think of it as a bribe,” I snapped.

  Sunday afternoon traffic was light on Interstate 85. I got off on the Shallowford Road exit as my caller had directed. Crossing over the Interstate onto Shallowford was like crossing the border into Tijuana.

  Signs on both sides of the road were written in Spanish and English. I saw groups of Hispanic men standing at bus stops or congregated around cars in shopping center and apartment complex parking lots.

  Most of the men, I knew, were day laborers, drawn to the Shallowford corridor by good-paying construction jobs around Atlanta’s booming perimeter. Check a construction site in Atlanta and you’ll hear Spanish radio stations, see taqueria trucks parked at lunchtime. Sheetrock crews, brick masons, framers, and roofing crews—nearly all seem Mexican. The apartment complexes along the corridor had become home to the laborers, many of them living six or eight to an apartment, an economy move to allow them to send most of their wages to family back in Mexico.

  With five minutes to spare, I found the shopping center with the dry cleaner’s, and backed into the space, so that I faced out, looking at Shallowford.

  I slid a hand under my seat, feeling my Smith & Wesson 9-mm lodged there, and patted the pocket of my blazer, where I’d slipped my cassette tape recorder. Then I put my head back and exhaled slowly.

  It was just after three o’clock. Three young Mexican girls strolled past the laundry, their long dark hair whipping about in the gray afternoon breeze. I could hear their laughter through the van’s rolled-up windows.

  Five minutes was just long enough for a chill to settle over me. I turned up the collar of my blazer and started the van so I could run the heater. Another five minutes passed, and then another.

  Was the whole thing a hoax? I craned my neck, looking up and down Shallowford, seeing nothing remarkable. The cell phone rang and I jumped.

  I flipped it open.

  “Get out of the van and walk toward the street.” It was the same voice I’d heard before.

  “What about the diapers and food and stuff?” I asked.

  “Leave the keys in the van. Somebody will get the stuff.”

  “Leave my car unlocked in this neighborhood? I’m crazy, but I’m not stupid.”

  “You want to talk to Deecie or not?” he asked.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Walk to the road. You can carry the cell phone in your hand, so we know it’s you. Get out of the van right now, or forget about it.”

  I looked around. I wanted to take my gun, but I was afraid he was watching and would see me bend down to get it.

  “All right,” I said. “I’m getting out.”

  “Good,” he said. “Walk fast. Right to the curb.”

  I gave my van a last longing look. It was cold outside, the temperature hovering just above freezing, and I’d been in such a rush I’d forgotten to grab a heavy jacket.

  I crossed a strip of brown weeds and stood at the edge of the street, feeling small and vulnerable.

  “A car’s gonna pull up. We’ll open the door. Just get in. Don’t say nothing. Don’t ask nothing.”

  “How do I know it’s you guys?” I asked. “I’m not in the habit of getting in a car with strangers.”

  “Just do it,” he said.

  Cars passed, a pickup slowed down, honked the horn, and a guy leaned out the passenger side. “Hey, bay-bee!”

  I flipped him a bird, then put my hands in my pockets.

  A faded yellow Cadillac with tinted windows slowed and stopped at the curb. The back door opened. I swallowed hard, and got in.

  The driver kept his back turned to me. A guy in the front seat turned around. He was young, black, with a round face shaded by a Braves baseball cap. “You’re doin’ good,” he said, his smile revealing a chipped front tooth.

  I recognized his voice. He was the caller. I held up the cell phone. “Nice talking to you.”

  He held up his. “Likewise.”

  “Are you William?” I asked.

  “Could be. You leave the van unlocked?”

  I nodded. “I hope your buddy picks it up soon. I need my wheels.”

  “He’s right behind us,” William said.

  “How’s Deecie?” I asked.

  “Scared. Real scared.”

  He handed me a red bandana. “Tie that around your eyes. You don’t wanna know where we’re taking you.”

  “Come on,” I protested. “I’m not interested in turning Deecie in. I told you that. I want to help her and Faheem.”

  “You wanna help, you put that on and quit asking questions,” he said.

  The bandana smelled like cigarette smoke. I sat very still, with my hands folded in my lap. We drove in silence for maybe ten minutes, in what direction I couldn’t say.

  “Turn here,” William told the driver. The car swayed to the right. “Slow down. Yeah. Go all the way around the back.” The car slowed, and I felt it go over what felt like a speed bump. “Keep going,” William coached. “See where I’m pointing? Pull over there. Give one beep, so they’ll know it’s us.”

  The horn honked once, lightly, and the driver cut the ignition. I heard the front door open and close. Then my door opened. A hand took mine and guided me out of the car. I stood unsteadily.

  “Hang on to my arm,” William instructed. “Nice and slow.” I linked my arm in his and we inched forward. “Three steps up,” he said, pulling at my arm. “Then two steps forward. Okay, now I’m opening the door, and you’re gonna step over a threshold and then stop,” he said. I did as I was told, taking mincing steps. I didn’t like this worth a flip.

  I heard a grating metallic sound, felt warm air against my face. He propelled me forward three steps, and then stopped. The door closed behind us. He pulled me forward and I stumbled, nearly tripping, until he yanked me to an upright position. “Damn, girl,” he muttered. He reached over and pulled the bandana off. It took a moment for my eyes to get adjusted to the light, not that there was much of it.

  We were in some kind of storeroom, cement floored, with high ceilings. Crates were stacked against walls, the lettering was in Spanish.

  “In here,” William said, jerking his head to the left.

  A door on the left was slightly ajar, spilling light into the stockroom. The sign on the door said “Ladies.”

  Deecie was seated on a cracked green plastic sofa, a red plaid sleeping bag wrapped around her shoulders. Her hair was uncombed and stood up wildly from her head. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she sipped from a large McDonald’s Coke. So my van really had made the trip.

  There was a portable playpen shoved in the corner of the bathroom, up against a grungy sink. Faheem lay on his stomach, head turned to the side, fast asleep.

  “How ya doing?” I asked, giving her a smile.

  She shrugged, held out the McDonald’s bag to William. “You didn’t tell her about the pickles.”

  He took the bag, peered inside. “Pickles ain’t gonna kill nobody.” He pushed the door of the toilet stall open and sat himself on the commode, gesturing for me to sit on the sofa beside Deecie.

  “Bucky,” she said softly. “Is he dead?”

  “No. He’s still alive, if you can call it that.”

  She lifted the edge of her Quarter-Pounder, removed the pickles, and dropped them in the paper sack beside her. She took a test nibble of the hamburger, paused, then attacked it as though she hadn’t eaten in a week.

  I made myself wait until she’d polished off the hamburger, wadded up the foil wrapper, and disposed of it. William sat on the commode and had his lunch, keeping his eyes on me all the while he was eating.

  “Deecie,” I said finally, thrusting my hands into my jacket pockets and turning on the tape recorder. “Will you tell me what happened that night? Who shot Bucky?”

  Her eyes darted toward William. He nodded.

  She blotted her lips with a paper napkin. “Only time that night
it got quiet. Bucky came in, told me hi. Then he went over to the beer cooler. He opened the door and stood there looking. I knew what he was looking for. That beer he likes.”

  “Harp,” I said.

  “Yeah. He usually took a six-pack home with him the nights he worked,” Deecie said. “But man, we were busy all night. Sold a ton of beer. ‘Cause it was St. Patrick’s Day. We were out of all the imported beer. Molson, Moosehead, Heineken. And I told him that. So he says, ‘Never mind, I bet there’s some in the walk-in cooler in the back.’ So I buzzed the buzzer that unlocks the door, and he went on back there.”

  “Did you go with him?” I asked.

  “Uh-uh,” she said, shaking her head no. “I told you, we’d been busy all night. That old Greek, if he catches you leaving the register, he’ll fire your ass in a New York second. Bucky went on back, and I stayed out front.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Weren’t you in the store alone?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I thought I was. Pete came in about six. He took the big bills out of the register and put them in the safe in back, then he told me the security guard wasn’t coming in. So I’d be working alone, and was that a problem? I’d worked by myself a couple times before, and I wasn’t scared. I knew where the panic button was, and cops come in there all the time, ‘cause they’re all buddies with Pete. And the police department is just down the street, right?”

  I nodded agreement.

  “After Pete left, my aunt come in the store carrying my baby,” Deecie said. “Faheem was cuttin’ up bad. He was really sick. And my aunt, she said she couldn’t get no sleep with him cuttin’ up like that. She wanted me to come home and take care of him. But I couldn’t leave the store. Pete woulda fired me for sure. So I told her leave him with me. He cried for a while, but after he had a bottle, he settled down some. He slept the rest of the night. Good as gold. He woke up right before Bucky come in.”

  “But other than Faheem, you were alone?”

  “I’m getting to that,” she said. “After Bucky went in back, a guy came in the store.”

  “Who?” So I had dozed off while Bucky was in the store.

  “Just some old guy. He was asking me about scotch, and I don’t know nothing about scotch. I sold him a bottle of Dewar’s. He paid cash and left. Next thing I know, Bucky comes bustin’ out of the storeroom. He’s got the beer in his hand, and a funny look on his face. He walked right past me, like he didn’t even see me there. So I yelled at him, ‘Stop, thief,’ like a joke, right? And he starts to say something, but all of a sudden, the storeroom door opens again, and this guy runs out. He’s got on a stocking mask, like I told you. That part was true, swear to God. And he screams something like, ‘Stupid motherfucker.’ And Jesus, he’s got a gun!”

  Deecie’s face twisted in agony. Tears ran down her cheeks. “And Bucky turns around, like he’s gonna run, but the guy just shoots. He shot him right in the head,” she said chokingly. “I never seen nothing like that. I was screaming and screaming. And the guy walks up to Bucky, puts the gun right behind his ear and shoots again.”

  “What were you doing during all this?” I asked.

  “Screaming!” she said. “And Faheem he was screaming, ‘cause I scared him, I guess. I got down on the floor behind the register, and that’s when I remembered about the panic button. I pushed it, and then I was laying there, and I looked up, and he was behind the counter with me! He pointed the gun at me, and Faheem screamed, and then, I don’t know. Something happened. Like he changed his mind. He was gonna kill us, I just knew it. But he shook his head, then he pushed the button on the stockroom door and buzzed it and ran out.”

  “He knew where the buzzer was to unlock the door?”

  “Look like it to me,” she said, wiping at a tear with her little finger. “Something come over me after that. I was scared, but I wanted to see what happened, where that man went,” Deecie said. “I put Faheem down in his carrier and I ran into the stockroom too. The alley door was open, and I went over there and looked out. And that’s when I seen it.”

  “What?”

  “The truck. Big old white pickup truck. Parked there in the alley. Had the lights off, but when I peeked out, it started up and went racing out of there.”

  “You know whose truck it was?” I asked.

  “Pete’s,” she whispered. “It was Pete’s.”

  28

  Pete Viatkos was there when Bucky was shot? The notion didn’t seem to work. Why would Viatkos stage a robbery at his own store and shoot an employee in the head, leaving another employee alive to testify against him?

  “You said it was Pete’s truck? Was he driving it?”

  “It was dark. I couldn’t see who was driving,” Deecie said. “But I know it was his truck. One of those really big ones, a Ford.”

  “Like an F-10,” William put in. “That’s what that old Greek drives. A white Ford F-10. He used to park out front of the liquor store.”

  “Is that why you took off with the money and the videotape?” I asked. “Because of Viatkos?”

  “I never took no damn money,” Deecie said. “That’s a damn lie, if he said it. All I did was take the videotape and put it in Faheem’s diaper bag. I don’t know what made me take it, guess I was thinking about what Pete would do to me if I told. Anyway, who’d believe me? It don’t make sense.”

  “What about the shooter?” I asked. “Could he have been Viatkos?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said reluctantly. “The voice was different. And the guy who shot Bucky, he was bigger than Pete. And he was quick. Pete’s a old dude. He ain’t moving that fast.”

  “Where’s the videotape?” I asked.

  Deecie looked over at William, who shook his head side to side.

  “Don’t even think about it. That’s our insurance policy,” William said craftily. “Ain’t nobody getting a look at that until we start talking about reward money.”

  “Why’d you even call me?” I asked. “Why not call the cops and tell them your story?”

  Deecie looked down at her sleeping son, her expression softening. “I heard you’d been ‘round, asking about me. The police been ‘round too, but they calling me a thief, tellin’ my aunt they gonna arrest me. And I ain’t done nothin’.”

  “You’re going to have to trust somebody,” I said. “I can’t get you the reward money. You’ll have to talk to the cops. Tell them what you saw that night.”

  “They gonna believe me and not Pete Viatkos?” she asked.

  William snorted. “Yeah, and pigs can fly. That old dude’s best friends with half the cops in this town. Who’s gonna believe us?”

  “I believe you.”

  A little gurgling sound came from the playpen. We all looked. Faheem was sitting up, rubbing his eyes with balled-up fists. He yawned, then started to wail. Deecie stood and picked him up, hugging him to her, making little shushing sounds until he quieted down.

  She looked over her son’s head at me. “We can’t be staying here much longer. My baby’s sick. It’s cold in here. William, he been doing the best he can, but we got to get out of here. Somebody finds out we’re staying here, ain’t no telling what could happen.”

  William put a protective arm around her shoulder. “Nothing’s gonna happen to you. I ain’t gonna let it. I got my crew, we take care of things.”

  “Your crew can’t prove Deecie didn’t steal that money,” I pointed out. “And they can’t convince the police she saw what she saw. But I think I can.”

  “How?” William demanded.

  “I know the head of the homicide unit. Major Mackey. He was Bucky’s boss. He wants to find out who shot him. He wants the truth.”

  “What about the money?” William asked. “When do we get the reward money?”

  “The reward money depends on the police arresting and convicting the person responsible for shooting Bucky,” I said. “It’s very likely Deecie will have to give the police a sworn statement and testify in court.”

  Deecie’s
eyes widened in alarm. “Against Pete Viatkos?”

  “You don’t know he was the shooter,” I said. “You don’t even know that was him driving the truck. But if you were to hand over that videotape, the police could get a better look at the shooter.”

  Deecie stood there, swaying back and forth, making small clucking sounds to Faheem. “William?”

  For the first time, he looked uncertain.

  “I wanna go home, William,” Deecie said. “Let my baby sleep in his own crib. Get him his medicine.” She sounded tired.

  William said, “You say you know this guy, the head man? And he’d be straight with us?”

  “Yes,” I said, trying to sound convincing.

  Deecie turned to him, her eyes pleading.

  “All right,” William said. “You talk to the man. I’ll call you tonight, see what the deal is.”

  “Tonight? That’s not enough time,” I said. “Another cop was killed last night. Every cop in the city is working that case. I don’t know if I can get to Major Mackey tonight, William. It might take a little more time.”

  “Tomorrow,” Deecie said, deciding the matter. “Tomorrow is good enough. But no longer, okay?”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said. “But I’d have more leverage if you’d let me see the videotape.”

  “We’ll call you tomorrow,” William said.

  He put the bandana on me and helped me into the car. Or rather, the van. I could tell from the step up that we were getting into my pink van. We drove for another ten minutes or so, me masked, with my radio blaring.

  I felt the van turning once, then again. He put it in park. I heard the driver’s side door open, then close. Then he was by my side, speaking into my ear.

  “I’m leaving now. Five minutes, you can take that off. Don’t try to come looking for us. And don’t be messin’ us around. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  29

  Mackey’s face had aged a decade in just a few days. He was unshaven, his dress shirt rumpled, the necktie askew. Stacks of files littered his desk. He opened one and flipped through it as I played the audiotape of Deecie Styles.

  He cocked his head at the mention of Pete Viatkos. “What the hell?”