Shotgun Lullaby

by Steve Ulfelder

  But where’d he go?

  I pounded the dash again.

  Calm down. He’s got to be headed for the Hi Hat.

  Really? He doesn’t exactly have the Charlie Pundo seal of approval.

  He’s not a rocket scientist. The Hi Hat is home. The Hi Hat is safe. Where else would he go?

  I breathed myself calm, took a few seconds to think things through.

  I’d left Sophie alone at the comp. Was that smart?

  It wasn’t ideal, but it seemed like the right move. The coach had a good head on her shoulders, and the Civic Center was a public place packed with a couple thousand people. Better to have Sophie there while I tracked Fat Teddy than to lose him and spend the rest of the afternoon playing defense.

  You sure?

  Hell, I’m not sure about anything.

  I drove.

  Five minutes later, I parked across from the club in almost exactly the spot I’d used the first time Randall and I came here.

  The maroon Altima was parked out front, just past the club’s front door and the massive twin glass panes that fronted the joint.

  Perfect.

  Black, red, black.

  I idled. I pictured Fat Teddy Pundo lobbing a Molotov cocktail. I pictured him doodling west on the pike, two cars back, invisible to dumb-ass me.

  Black, red, black.

  I revved my truck, dropped the shift lever in drive.

  Half a plan …

  I paused.

  If you use your own truck, you might as well just take care of business, then sit on the curb in cuff-me-officer position.

  But what else was I going to use? Hot-wiring a car, especially a modern one, is TV-detective bullshit. There are too many wires, too many computer fail-safes and lockouts. I’ve worked on cars all my life, and I couldn’t hot-wire one if you gave me all day and a shop manual.

  The Altima. This is Charlie Pundo’s block. This is home. Nobody’s ever stolen a car from a Pundo and lived to brag about it.

  Huh. Would the keys be in it?

  Worth a look.

  Three minutes later, having driven around the block and parked in a spot that’d keep my truck off the Hi Hat security cams, I speed-walked past the Altima and cut a glance at its interior.

  Keys. Right there in the ignition. Doors unlocked.

  Knew it.

  I didn’t hesitate. I stepped around the car, not looking either way, and climbed in. Fired it up. Backed up a hundred yards. Popped it in drive, hit the throttle.

  I picked up speed in a hurry.

  The club came at me fast.

  I put both hands on the steering wheel and braced myself.

  I hit the curb at a harsh angle. The wheel bucked. I hung on.

  When I hit one of the plateglass windows, I was doing forty-five.

  I was semi-controlled.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Everything exploded. My nose broke on the air bag. I nearly passed out from the pain.

  Things went quiet then.

  I was inside the club.

  I kicked my door open.

  Sitting not three feet from the nose of the Altima was Fat Teddy Pundo.

  His mouth was frozen in an O.

  Half-wondering where Boxer was—guarding the boss in the office out back?—I looked around. There were no customers unless I’d run them over. Behind the bar stood today’s barkeep: a redheaded woman in a white oxford-cloth shirt. I looked at her once, then turned back to Teddy. Don’t know where she went, but I never saw her again.

  Things turned slow. Things turned precise. I knew that feeling, remembered it from my racing days, loved it. It was my edge: Teddy Pundo, bully-boy freak with a gangster daddy, didn’t know the feeling at all.

  He was dead already and too stupid to realize it.

  He rose, reaching behind his back with his right hand. I took two steps, boot-crushing plateglass and aluminum window trim. Without taking my eyes from Teddy, I reached for what was near: a chrome barstool with a black padded seat.

  I grabbed the stool high on one leg. It was good and heavy, but to make use of its weight I needed to adjust my grip. I tossed it in the air like I was trying to wreck the ceiling fan above. Hell, I nearly did.

  Nearly.

  Instead: got both hands on one leg. Now I had a useful grip on the stool, a right-handed batting stance. I shifted my stride, sliding my left foot out front and setting up my backswing.

  Teddy Pundo loved his black leather car coat—probably thought it made him look thinner—but he was having a hell of a time finding his gun in there.

  What a shame.

  His eyes went big as my backswing apexed and I stepped toward him again.

  Finally, from behind his back came a matte-black semiautomatic.

  When the world slows, the way it had for me, you see everything. Your brain operates at absolute maximum, vacuuming info.

  I used to race against a guy who was blind as a bat. Couldn’t read a stop sign until he’d run it, wore Mister Magoo glasses just to get his socks on. But you know what? He didn’t need the glasses to race. Damnedest thing. He said once the green flag fell, he had the vision of a twenty-two-year-old fighter pilot—until he saw the checkers.

  I believed him. He was a damn good driver.

  I mention this because even as I began my swing, even as Fat Teddy Pundo squeezed the trigger, I saw the gun was a SIG Sauer P226. I was pretty sure it was the fancy Blackwater version.

  Like I said: your brain takes in everything.

  I also noticed the 9mm round hissing past my left ear as I swung the barstool.

  Goddamn Teddy made the luckiest move of his life, cringing and backing away. The stool was supposed to flatten his temple, but instead it just knocked the SIG flying and smashed his nose.

  And then I was vulnerable as hell: unable to stop the stool’s follow through, I let it sail toward the club’s stage and found myself way off-balance, all weight on my left foot, torso parallel to the floor.

  Give Fat Teddy credit: he knew what to do.

  He kicked me in the stomach as hard as he could with a pointy black shoe.

  I won’t lie: it hurt bad. Felt like the shoe clipped an organ or two on its way through my rib cage and into my spine.

  I went to hands and knees.

  I fought for breath.

  I tried to uncross my eyes.

  Teddy did what I would’ve done: he took a half second or so to steady himself and then kicked again.

  If he’d connected, he might have knocked me cold.

  But in spite of the pain and that instinctive panic when breath is gone, I was still seeing everything in slow motion.

  I knew he was going to kick before he did. I even knew he’d use the same foot.

  I got my right hand off the floor and my right forearm to my side a tenth of a second before the pointy shoe arrived.

  New pain numbed the arm from the elbow down.

  But I captured the foot.

  Teddy Pundo said, “Hey.” Like he’d caught me cheating at a board game.

  I said nothing. Reached across my belly with the other hand. Breathed—boy, did that feel good.

  And rose.

  “Hey,” Teddy Pundo said.

  I don’t know if it was my grip or the look on my face, but his eyes finally lit up, showing something other than stupidity as he came to realize how bad things were looking for him.

  “Hey,” he said.

  I twisted his foot.

  “My dad,” he said.

  Twist.

  “Hey!”

  Twist.

  “My dad! Money! Hey!”

  We began a dance. Teddy: hopping on his free foot, grabbing at me, fighting for balance. Me: twisting him, forcing him to hop. Most of my strength was gone—adrenaline seeped out while pain seeped in.

  I was trying like hell to put him down, where I could fall on him and choke or blind him. But he had balance you wouldn’t believe.

  I hopped him across the floor to a po
tted plant on a stand.

  I hopped him into a few wire chairs. He grabbed one and swung it at me, but had to let go and windmill for balance.

  I heard sirens, far off. That made sense: even in Springfield, even on Charlie Pundo’s private block, you couldn’t drive a car through a window without lighting off a 911 call or two.

  I needed to hurry.

  So use his hopping against him.

  I breathed, heaved. I hopped Teddy in a way that forced him to put his back to the club’s intact window.

  Then I leaned in and hopped him backward.

  We picked up speed. The momentum helped me. The hops lengthened. Teddy’s eyes went wide. I gave one last shove, noticing the sirens were a little louder, and fell forward.

  He went through the window backward.

  Quarter-inch plateglass exploded.

  Teddy went down.

  And stayed there.

  I rose and stepped to him.

  The base of Fat Teddy’s spine was hung up on the windowsill, eighteen inches above floor level. He was bent way too far backward. The top third of the window quivered, still in its frame.

  I stood over him. I looked down at him.

  Then I looked up. At that top third of intact window.

  Teddy’s eyes followed mine.

  He opened his mouth.

  He tried to say something.

  I wasn’t interested in whatever he had to say.

  I kicked the window frame and stepped back.

  And watched glass guillotine his belly.

  Then I looked away.

  I breathed.

  I worked angles.

  Sirens sirens sirens, making it hard to think.

  The state of Teddy Pundo’s body didn’t help.

  I’d seen a lot.

  But nothing like that.

  I wanted out of this club, away from this place.

  I began to shake.

  You can shake later. For now, think.

  I did.

  The shakes stopped when I had a plan.

  Forcing myself to ignore the sirens, I looked at the ceiling. I knew Charlie Pundo had sprinklers in his office to protect his records, but I didn’t see a setup out there—which seemed impossible, but there it was. Maybe the club had been grandfathered in, or maybe the city of Springfield had looked the other way when Charlie launched the Hi Hat. Either way, I was grateful.

  I stepped to the Altima, reached through the driver’s window, turned the key to the on position. Cocked an ear, made sure the fuel pump was running.

  Moved to the front of the car, wrenched up its buckled hood. Found where the fuel line connected to the intake manifold. No time to be pretty: I yanked the thin metal line as hard as I could.

  Got what I wanted: a stream of gasoline on my fist.

  Squinted around the bottom of the engine bay until I spotted the oil filter. Leaned, got a grip, hoped the filter wasn’t overtightened.

  It wasn’t. I spun it off. Oil gouted to the car’s belly pan, then to the club floor.

  I grabbed a tablecloth, bunched it in the engine bay. Gas began to soak it.

  Did the same with two more tablecloths.

  Grabbed a basket of matchbooks from the bar, stuffed them in the tablecloth nest. Lit one book, touched it to the cloth.

  The mess made a soft fwump as it caught.

  Sirens: loud loud loud.

  Then it was out the club door and a dead-nuts sprint for my truck.

  I drove, forcing myself to keep it slow. Soon as I could, I grabbed a left and rolled toward the Interstate.

  When I heard, and even felt, the ka-fwump of the Hi Hat catching fire, I damn near smiled.

  Not for long.

  My cell rang. A number I didn’t recognize with the local 413 area code.

  Huh. I picked up.

  A man’s voice, away from his microphone, said, “Shush, honey. Shush. Here he is.”

  Pause.

  Sophie Bollinger said, “Conway?”

  I stabbed the brakes, stopped dead in the middle of a block.

  The man’s voice came on again. “Gotcha, friend.”

  Frind.

  Boxer.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Black, red, black.

  First thing that came to mind: You left Sophie alone. You thought it through, and that was your decision. You killed her.

  I said the second thing that came to mind. “I’m going to kill you.”

  “Many have tried, friend, many have tried.”

  “I killed Fat Teddy not five minutes ago.”

  It threw him. The pause told me so.

  But it didn’t throw him far. “Even better,” Boxer said. “I was getting good and sick of carrying that one. Look, Sax, I’ve got something you want and you’ve got something I want.”

  I did?

  I thought about playing it clever.

  Then thought again. Clever doesn’t work out so hot for me. I said, “What is it that I’ve got?”

  “The shotgun.”

  “Cops have the shotgun. They found it in Donald’s Escalade where you planted it.”

  He sighed. “Belay the silly games, friend. The other shotgun.”

  Well.

  Well well well.

  Something half-clicked, but Boxer spoke before I could lock it in place.

  “Here’s what you do to get this little honey back safe and sound, Sax…”

  “What’s Charlie think about your play?”

  He said nothing.

  “Charlie sign off on kidnapping a teenage girl as leverage?”

  “Somebody’s not thinking straight.” Boxer said it to Sophie but stage-whispered for my benefit. “Somebody’s not focusing on what he needs to do if he ever wants to see your cute ponytail again, darlin’.”

  It stabbed my heart, the way it was supposed to. But it didn’t work, didn’t mask what he wanted it to mask.

  Boxer was off the reservation—his tag-team effort with Teddy at the Civic Center showed the pair of them had partnered up to end-run an old man they saw as soft. I’d wondered if that was the case. This call confirmed it. Charlie Pundo didn’t know shit about their move. And would be pissed if he learned of it.

  When he learned of it.

  I’d make sure he did.

  Once I pieced this together, still sitting in my truck on a shitty block in Springfield, I came to understand my leverage. Just like that.

  It hurt my heart.

  It hurt so bad.

  I needed baby Emma, and I needed her fast.

  “Gonna take me some time to get that gun out here,” I said.

  “You’ve got an hour.”

  “That’s not enough.”

  “Has to be.”

  “Do my best.” I checked my watch. “Where?”

  Long pause. “You know the old Algonquin Mills building? In Chicopee?”

  “Tell me.”

  He did.

  Then I did the hardest thing I’d ever done in my life. I held my phone at arm’s length and looked at the red END button.

  And pressed it.

  Pressing that button felt like slitting Sophie’s throat.

  I tamped down the doubt. Had things to do.

  First move: call Randall.

  He answered, thank God.

  I said, “Are you with Rinn right now? In Sherborn?”

  “Come on, haven’t we…”

  “Are you?”

  He picked up on my tone. “Sure. Why?”

  “Listen up and do all this to the letter. Leave Rinn there. Don’t tell her anything about anything. Grab Haley and the baby now, and make tracks for this address.” I said it.

  He wrote it. “It’ll take what, an hour and a half once I round up the gals?”

  “Do it in an hour.”

  “What?”

  “Or as near as you can. Randall…”

  “Easy, amigo.”

  “They’ve got Sophie.”

  Half-beat pause. “Here I come.”

&
nbsp; Click.

  I dug Charlie Pundo’s card from my wallet. Called his cell. Left voice mail.

  It was a hell of a voice mail.

  Now I had to hope he checked it. Guys his age, you never know.

  * * *

  The beat-up mill sat on the eastern bank of the Connecticut River, with killer views of the Berkshires to the west. It had the grand shape, the red brick, the arched windows. Inside, it would have the high ceilings. In a better city, it would’ve been carved into half-million-dollar condos.

  But this wasn’t a better city. This was Chicopee. The arched windows were busted out, and the river stank.

  I sat in my truck. Looked the place over, figured angles, tried to strip it back to a pure tactical problem of strengths and weaknesses and probabilities. The way Randall did when we watched shows on the Military Channel about famous battles.

  A corner of my head knew I was tricking myself, forcing myself into cold-analysis mode to avoid thinking about what I’d done to Sophie.

  Jesus Christ, what if I’d killed her?

  Stop. If you need to trick yourself, trick yourself.

  I breathed.

  Didn’t see any sign of Boxer, which was an edge. He thought I was hauling ass back to Sherborn for the shotgun he wanted so bad. He thought he had plenty of time.

  Why’s Boxer hot to trot over the shotgun?

  Because he was the killer. Maybe Teddy was the idea man—though even that doesn’t seem likely—but face it, Boxer was on the trigger.

  It was one of the first ideas Randall and I had tossed around. Boxer, the pro shooter, had gone steaming into Almost Home to prove you couldn’t mess with Teddy Pundo, who was now the king-shit dealer in Springfield. But Boxer had never seen Gus Biletnikov, and he’d blown away poor Weller, who just happened to be in the wrong room.

  That had to be embarrassing. Boxer had covered by cutting down Gus with the same shotgun, after stealing a pair of Donald Crump’s boots and somehow squeezing his feet into them. Then he’d killed Crump, already the top suspect, and had planted the shotgun to wrap the package in a way no cop would ever question.

  Two things had gone wrong, though. First, a teenager had decided to videotape his first handjob.

  And second … well, what? There was a screwup with the plant.

  Which probably explained why Lima was hemming and hawing about the shotgun.

  What was the screwup? I’d know soon enough.

  It all worked. But it forced me to think about Teddy for the first time since … since the Hi Hat. The world wouldn’t miss Fat Teddy Pundo, but part of the reason I’d … done what I’d done was because I pictured him cutting down Gus, pictured him blowing a hole in the kid who looked just like Roy.