“Get down!” I yelled.
He nodded and started to move. But he couldn’t.
“My foot is stuck under the bar,” he said.
I looked ahead. The tunnel was only two cars away.
“Pull it out!” I said.
He tried a couple of times, then he stopped. He looked ahead of us. The tunnel was just at the end of the car in front of us.
“So, this is how I pay for the sins of my father,” he said, then he closed his eyes. “Tell Sora I—”
We went through the tunnel.
Me and Tammy Jane and the train went through the tunnel.
But not Rudy.
Rudy went to heaven.
I had my eyes closed, so I didn’t see what happened, but that didn’t make it any less horrible. Didn’t make me cry any less.
It might have been the worst thing I’d ever gone through in my entire life.
When the train got through the tunnel, it got a signal or something to stop in the tracks, and we screeched to nothing.
Once we stopped, I climbed on down from the ladder and got back onto solid ground. I looked at my baby sister again.
She smiled at me. Either that or she had gas, but right then I needed a smile. So that’s what it was.
I started walking toward the engine, and that’s when I saw that there was a dozen state troopers all coming down from the road. And so was the Three Caballeros.
Pa got to me first, and he hugged me so hard I thought I might pop. Which was exactly what I needed right then.
After a bit, I realized we might have been making Tammy Jane uncomfortable, mainly ’cause she was crying, so I pulled away and handed her to him.
“Rudy’s back there,” I said. “He’s—” I couldn’t say it. It made me gag. I didn’t throw up, though, but I came real close.
Mr. Thomassen put his arm around me.
“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s going to be okay.”
Once they was sure I wasn’t aiming to die or nothing, he and Carlos went to go see if they could find the remains of Rudy and maybe get them keys Short-Guy needed, ’cause they was real focused like that. Pa stayed with me as the state troopers asked a billion questions. An ambulance came along eventually, carrying Short-Guy and Willie. Apparently Short-Guy had threatened to arrest them all if they took him to a hospital instead of to where we was, which I was grateful for, ’cause that meant Willie was there for me to talk to. And to do what he did best, take my mind off of things.
When we finally could, he and I went off on our own away from all the commotion, just up the hill a little ways. We stood there in the dark, with the stars over our heads, and we didn’t say nothing. Just let nature remind us that we was still alive.
“Hey, look at that,” he said. “The diner is still open. Bit late, ain’t it?”
I looked at where he was pointing, and sure enough, Nicole’s Diner still had their lights on. But there was only one car in the parking lot. A white Rolls-Royce with maroon fenders.
I knew what I needed to do.
“Go tell Short-Guy to send them state troopers over,” I said.
“Why? What’re you doing?” He looked closer at the diner. “Whose car is that?”
“Just tell him,” I said. Then I took off.
I climbed down the hill and up the next one and marched right through the front door of that diner. There was only one fella in there, a man in a white suit with thinning gray hair and tinted glasses. He was sitting at a table smoking a cigar, steeping a cup of tea.
I went over and stood next to him. He startled.
“Johnny?” Santo Trafficante said. “Got to say, I wasn’t expecting to see you.”
“I’ll bet,” I said. “You was expecting Rudy, right?”
He coughed.
“Who?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Mr. Trafficante. I ain’t in the mood. You was expecting Rudy to come in here with the Morris kid. Expecting that you was finally going to get your revenge. Right?”
He stared at me for a bit and his eye started twitching. I didn’t stare at it this time. Didn’t care.
The kitchen door swung open and one of his goons walked out with a sandwich. Mr. Trafficante waved him back in.
“So what if I am?” he asked. He pointed at the seat across from him, so I sat down.
“Well, if that’s what you’re here to do,” I said, “which I know it is, then I’m the one that’s got to tell you.” I took a breath. Things was about to get sticky. “Rudy’s dead.”
He let go of his tea bag and it sank into his cup.
“What?”
“Yeah, just happened. Out there.”
He put his hand on his chest. “How?” he asked.
“Let’s just say riding a train ain’t the safest way to travel.”
“Oh my God,” he said. “Oh my—why were you—how did you find out?”
“I was following him,” I said. “Saw the whole thing.”
He stared out the window and must have seen the lights from all the patrol cars that was out there.
“What about—”
“The Morris kid?” I asked. I took another deep breath. It was time for me to face the music. Time to finally stop running from who I was and the blood running in my veins. Even if it meant having a Mafia boss as a lifelong enemy that was probably going to kill me or whatnot. Even if it was suicide. I had to finally tell the truth.
“Here’s the thing about the Morris kid,” I said. I was suddenly remembering that Reverend Parkins said suicide was a sin. Oh well, I was already jumping off the cliff.
“Fact is,” I said, “I’m the son of—”
The little bell on the diner door jingled ’cause it opened. We both looked over at it.
Willie came hobbling in. He was out of breath like all get-out and was carrying that envelope I’d seen in Short-Guy’s car.
“There you are,” Willie said.
“I think you’re in the wrong place, boy,” Mr. Trafficante said, his voice gruff like it was coming through a puddle of tears in his throat.
“No, sir, I’m here with my guy,” Willie said, and he came and plopped down next to me. “This fella right here.”
Mr. Trafficante looked bumfuzzled. I felt bumfuzzled. Willie grabbed the tea and took a sip. He wasn’t bumfuzzled one bit.
“Willie, what you doing?” I asked.
“Joining you, ain’t it obvious?” he asked. “Good Lord, you took off running and you know I can’t go that fast.”
“But I didn’t—”
“Mean to leave me behind?” he said. He gave me that look that usually meant for me to shut up. Didn’t know how it fit into this context.
“No, what I was saying was—”
“That you forgot to bring the envelope, I know,” he said. His eyes really was sending all sorts of signals, but my brain wasn’t picking up any of them. I was still focused on telling Trafficante that I was a Morris and then getting shot in the face or whatever. And it ain’t often I get homed in like that, so him interfering was real frustrating.
“Johnny was telling me something, kid,” Trafficante said. “So maybe you should wait for him outside.”
“Yeah, that’s Johnny. He’s always saying something,” Willie said. “Thing is, half the time he ain’t saying nothing worth saying, and the other half he’s just getting himself into a mess of hot water. That’s why he’s got me.”
Wasn’t no arguing with that. Still, I was bound and determined to be done with hiding, done with running. So I wasn’t about to let him shut me up.
I turned back to Mr. Trafficante.
“I need to tell you the—”
“Truth about Morris’s son,” Willie said. I shot him a glare.
“Truth? What truth?” Trafficante said to me.
“See, here’s what the deal is,” I said. My palms was starting to sweat something fierce. “Fact is, Captain Morris’s son is somebody you ain’t expecting him to be. Somebody you done already know, you ju
st don’t know you know him.”
Santo wiped a tear from his eye and leaned over the table. He clenched his fists.
“Who is it?” Santo said through his teeth. “I swear to God I’ll kill that son of a—”
“You can’t kill somebody who’s already dead,” Willie said.
Me and Mr. Trafficante both looked at him like a couple of bullfrogs staring at a fake lily pad.
“Rudy,” Willie went on. “Rudy was Captain Morris’s son.”
Mr. Trafficante looked back out the window.
“Get this lying Tigger away from me,” he said. “And he better thank his lucky stars I don’t have a gun.”
“Oh, I do thank the Good Lord for that,” Willie said. “But I ain’t lying. Maybe I wish I was, but I ain’t.” Willie opened the envelope he was carrying and pulled out a great big piece of paper.
It was a birth certificate.
He slid it over in front of Mr. Trafficante. On the top it said “Panama City Hospital.” Under that it had the baby’s name, Rudy Trafficante. And then it had the parents’ names and, sure enough, right there where it asked for the father, it said what Willie’d claimed.
It said “Richard Morris.”
Mr. Trafficante stared at that for a bit, then he shot his eyes back up at Willie.
“How did you get this?”
“Getting things is sort of what I do,” Willie said. “Me and Johnny was given the address of that there hospital, so I called them up and they was happy to oblige.”
“The city in the letter?” I asked him. “So it was another code. Dadgum.” That sort of put the brakes on what I was going to say. I reckoned telling Santo that I was Morris’s son would probably be anticlimactic now.
Santo slammed the table with his fists. Yeah, I should just keep my mouth shut.
“You smug little punk,” he said. “Did you come here to hurt me? Do you have any idea who I am?”
Willie shifted in his seat real awkward-like and reached into his pocket for a second. Couldn’t be sure, but I thought I heard a click or something.
“I got some kind of an idea,” Willie said. “You own buildings, right?”
Santo actually started laughing at that, but not in a happy kind of way.
“Sure, kid. Sure.”
Willie picked up the envelope again.
“That’s what these say, at least,” he said. He pulled out three more big papers. At the top of each one was a photo of a key. Specifically, it was them keys that Rudy’d had. Under each one was another photo showing an address. And under that was a list of dates.
“See, here’s some buildings you own. And those dates at the bottom, those are times them buildings have been the target of FBI raids. You know, for all them drugs and prostitutes your fellas keep pushing.”
Santo picked up one of the pictures, glanced at it, then put it back down.
“I don’t own any of these.”
“I guess technically that’s true,” Willie said. “But you do own a company in Texas, don’t you? East Texas Financial, or something like that?”
Willie pulled out another paper. This one had a fella’s picture on it.
“This fella here is on the payroll, right? He also works in a federal building at night. Which is where he makes sure the records of all them building purchases gets swept under the rug.”
Now Santo started looking worried. He picked up that photo of the fella.
Willie wasn’t done talking.
“Too bad that fella loaned Rudy his keys a little while ago, huh? And too bad each key’s got an ID code on it so they know whose it is.”
Santo crumpled the photo up and threw it across the room. He stood up and towered over Willie.
Now Willie started looking a little worried.
“Who are you working for?” Santo said. “Who’s trying to do me in?”
The fella with the sandwich came running out of the kitchen again, followed by another fella about the same size and probably about as intelligent.
“Everything all right, boss?” the one fella said.
Santo grabbed Willie and pulled him up from his seat. “This kid’s pegged me. He knows too much.”
“He knows about the hit you called on Ken—”
“Shut up!” Santo hollered. “He knows about ETF and the racket we’re running.”
Santo shoved Willie into them thugs’ arms. They grabbed him and held him up off the ground.
“But my question is,” Santo went on, “how do you know? You working for the Feds?”
Willie started wiggling his feet. I wasn’t entirely sure what to do for him, but I reckoned I could maybe fight one of them fellas off with a fork or something. Might not win, but it’s the thought that counts.
“What if I am working for the Feds?” Willie said. “You wouldn’t kill a Fed, would you?”
Santo got the creepiest, sickest smile I’ve ever seen.
“Tigger, you’ve got no idea who I’m willing to kill.”
I jumped up. “He ain’t working for the Feds. He’s working with me.”
Santo narrowed his eyes at me. “That doesn’t tell me anything.”
“It does so,” I said. “ ’Cause I’m working for the Three Caballeros.”
Santo huffed. “I knew Thomassen was a Caballero.”
“No he ain’t. You don’t know who they are,” I said. “In fact, you don’t really know who we are.”
“Oh, I know you,” he said. I reckoned he was aiming to scare me. Didn’t work.
“You really don’t know me,” I said. “But I know you. We know you and all the underhanded things you been doing. And that’s why we came to give you a message.”
He didn’t say nothing back, so I figured that meant I should tell it to him.
“Don’t get in our way,” I said. “And we won’t get in yours. For now.”
“Or else what? You take me to the Feds?” he asked.
“Maybe,” I said. Then I tried to think of what Mr. Thomassen would say right about then. “Or maybe we’ll deal with you ourselves.”
“Kid, you got some mighty strong cojones to be threatening me.”
“Say,” Willie said, still dangling his feet in the air, “speaking of the Feds, unless I’m mistaken, that’s them coming up over the hill.”
They all looked out the window and, sure enough, Short-Guy was heading our way with his posse of fellas. They was state troopers, but I reckon when you’re feeling real guilty, you can’t much tell the difference between them and federal agents.
Santo stared for about two seconds, then he grabbed all them photos and everything else and ran out to his car. Them two other fellas dropped Willie, followed him, and they ripped out of that parking lot like a bat out of hell.
Willie picked himself up off the floor. He reached in his pocket and I heard another click.
“What’s that?”
He pulled a little box thing out of his pocket. There was a wire coming off of it and going up his shirt.
“This here is a CIA-commissioned mini–tape recorder. And we got him admitting to all that mess right here on the tape.”
Well, dadgum.
“So you was putting all this together? Getting all this ready just in case something like this happened?”
Willie grinned. “I’ve learned to expect the worst when I’m helping you out.”
That made sense.
“Still, it’s a real stroke of luck that you figured out what Tommy meant about that address, ain’t it?”
Willie grabbed the envelope and folded it up.
“Huh?” he said. “Oh, the birth certificate thing? Yeah, no, Tommy was drunk when he wrote that address. It didn’t go to nothing.”
“But the certificate—”
“Was fake. Short-Guy had Marge make it for him real fast after I told him my idea.” He laughed at the look on my face. “Ain’t it something what the CIA can do when they’re put on the spot?”
“Yeah,” I said as Short-Guy and them ot
her fellas started to come in. “Especially when they get a little help from a junior agent.”
“Except I wasn’t being a junior agent when I came up with this,” he said. “Lying, cheating, jumping headfirst into danger without a second thought? I was being like Johnny Cannon.”
I was sure glad at least one of us was.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE END
And that’s why Short-Guy moved in with us, ’cause he ain’t so sure Trafficante’s going to keep his distance,” I said to Ma’s gravestone. “Which has been real weird, ’cause I don’t reckon we’ve had a house this full since forever.”
It was September 23, a little over two weeks after Rudy died and Tammy Jane was born. It also just so happened to be Ma’s birthday. And this time I’d brought her some really good flowers. Sora’d helped me pick them out. And she promised to keep on doing it every year, for as long as she was living with us. Which Pa said was maybe going to be forever. And I was fine with that.
“By the way, did you know that on this day back in 1806, Lewis and Clark arrived back in St. Louis after they had their big adventure? Funny thing is, that’s where Mr. Thomassen is at too. Apparently he tracked down the fella that sold Rudy the federal key and he’s going to see what them Trafficantes was planning.”
I heard a car pull up to the front gate. I looked over and saw it was the Mackers’. Martha got out and walked over to where I was at.
“Hey,” she said. It was the first real word she’d said to me since Snake Pond.
“Hey,” I said. “You finally came to meet Ma?”
She looked at the gravestone, then she smiled. She knelt down.
“Hello, Mrs. Cannon. My name’s Martha. Your son and I—” She looked up at me. “We’re friends.”
She let that settle in for what it was worth, and it worked just fine to me. At least it was a step forward. Then she stood back up. I reckoned maybe we could start Operation Happy Ending again.
“Hey, you want to come fishing?” I asked. “Me and Pa are taking Tammy Jane and Sora down to the lake to catch a few, or at least to waste some time together. Short-Guy’s going too. And, if you want to come along, it could be a lot of fun.”
The Struggles of Johnny Cannon Page 22