Tempted by Trouble

by Eric Jerome Dickey

  “We have the money. She didn’t get away with the money.”

  “We haven’t gotten away with it either. We’re still in Trussville. I need my gun back.”

  Eddie Coyle made painful sounds and he pulled the gun from his waistband and handed it to me.

  Cora looked terrified, wringing her hands. She wasn’t prepared for an outcome like this. Eddie Coyle and what was left of his crew were all in pain and bleeding. Jackie’s body was on the floor, looking up at the roof of the van, eyes wide open, that final look of pain and surprise etched in her face. Cora was in pain, but she kicked Jackie’s body over and over. She kicked Jackie like she was trying to kick her to the other side of hell. It looked like she had been kicking Jackie for a while. Eddie Coyle stared at the face of his deceased brother.

  Then Cora’s eyes met mine. I knew her. She was afraid. I was afraid too. Every muscle and bone in my body ached and I was afraid.

  I expected to see Jackie standing on the side of the van, bleeding and looking at me with hate in her eyes, but I didn’t see her. I didn’t see Jackie or Rick or Sammy.

  Yet I felt them all. I felt all of their deaths, heavy in my muscles. The recoil from when I had pulled the trigger on that gun, it stayed with me.

  Hands shaking, nausea rising, I took a deep breath, wiped sweat from my brow, leaving a streak of blood across my face. I adjusted my fedora, pulled it down low on my bruised face, and drove us away, eased us from the rear of the annexes and past the five-level parking structure. People were still exiting the parking structure. The megachurch was far enough away from the annex. No one had heard the shootout. I drove past smiling families as they left wrapped in coats, umbrellas held up high. A choir was singing “God Bless Us, Every One.”

  I mixed with the traffic leaving the sacred grounds. I made a left turn, took Highway 11, and headed back toward Chalkville Road. Moans of misery and resentment filled the cab and I cruised back toward the safe house. There was no need to head for the stage-two vehicle that had been left at Highway 11 and Chalkville Road, not when half of my cargo was dead and the other half bloodied. We looked liked we had been fighting the war in Afghanistan. The side windows fogged over and made my cargo obscure. Winds blew and the gray skies spat globs of wet snow on us as the glass-and-marble Six Flags over Jesus damned us all, its steeple long and tall, like a middle finger.

  The windshield wipers moved back and forth, screeching and slapping snow out of our way.

  No one had been left behind. That was what mattered to me.

  Right or wrong, I had done as I had promised. This time no one was abandoned along the way.

  21

  Sirens punctured the air in Trussville.

  We had been inside the safe house for twenty minutes and from the back upstairs window I could see law enforcement and paramedics speeding down Highway 11 toward Six Flags over Jesus.

  Forty-five minutes had gone by since I had rescued my team from the annex.

  Tension remained high. Eddie Coyle and Cora were on edge. So was I.

  Eddie Coyle called out from the bathroom, “You’re my hero, Dmytryk. I mean that. You’re my goddamn hero.”

  “No need to thank me.”

  “I have to. It’s from the bottom of my heart. Now I know that you didn’t let Sammy and Rick down. My brother is dead and you got his body out of there. You’re one of a kind, Dmytryk. You’re a much better, a much stronger man than I had given you credit for. And you can throw a goddamn punch. We’re going to need you to get us out of here. The plan for taking separate cars, that isn’t going to fly, not with these injuries. Get me back to Rome and I can get everything taken care of.”

  “Jackie and Bishop?”

  “We’ll leave them here. I’ll send over a cleaner.”

  Wounded but still determined, Eddie Coyle limped in from the bathroom and sat at the dining room table. The shoulder shot had gone clean through, but his wounds were wrapped. Same for the shot that had hit his left elbow. His body was in shock, and his white shirt was soaked with sweat and his own life’s fluids. I had gone back to the van and dragged the bag of money into the living room and dropped it there, its bottom leaving a rugged trail of redness from tile to carpet. Head bloodied and wrapped in towels, Cora went and stood over the money.

  I told her, “Don’t go to sleep. No matter how bad you might want to, don’t go to sleep.”

  “I’m dizzy and nauseated. There is a ringing inside my ears that won’t stop. My head aches and I feel like I want to throw up, but I can’t. It feels like I’m talking with a mouth filled with cotton.”

  “Your speech is slightly slurred.”

  “And I feel tired. I feel so tired. All I want to do is lie down and close my eyes.”

  “You have a concussion. If you go to sleep, it could turn into the big sleep.”

  “You saved me.”

  “I did my job.”

  My heart filled with relief and animosity, I looked in her red-rimmed eyes.

  She was remembering the first four years of our marriage.

  I was remembering the final two.

  Hands shaking, I walked away. I went to the bathroom upstairs and looked out the window. I’d expected to see a hundred police cars heading this way. I heard sirens but this unfinished and unsold subdivision remained empty. It was like hiding in a ghost town. The echo of sirens continued to sound on the other side of the railroad tracks that separated us from the parks and the populated sections in this part of Trussville. I imagined that the news had hit Birmingham and all the connected cities and a dozen news crews were heading in the same direction. The sleeping town was awake and they were doggedly hunting for the thieves who had been inside the temple.

  The nine-millimeter was heavy on my person. I took it out of the waist of my pants and placed it on the counter before I reached inside my suit pocket and took out the bottle of Vicodin.

  I popped one.

  I whispered, “You’re safe, Abbey Rose. I kept my promise. You’re safe. Espero que tenga una buena vida. I’m sorry for the wrong I did to you. I’ll always regret that.”

  Then I popped a second Vicodin. I was tempted to down the entire bottle and call it a day. I was tired. I was tired of everything. For a few seconds, I wanted to put a rope around my neck, stand on a chair, and get this weight off of my shoulders. That feeling passed.

  I heard the water running in the next bedroom. Cora was inside the master bathroom.

  I went to the window and saw them outside. Rick was the closest, standing in the street, the snow falling through his ethereal body as Sammy and Jackie danced the tango a few feet behind him.

  I pulled off my bloodied suit coat. My white shirt was pink and red more than white.

  I looked at the gun that had killed Jackie. I put it back inside my waistband and went back downstairs. Moments later Cora came back down the stairs. Battered, bruised, or filled with bullet holes, we were all covered in layers of blood and this grand plan had turned out to be nothing more than another performance in the Theater of the Absurd.

  Jackie’s suitcase was in the living room, ready to leave, ready to go get her kid. Bishop’s luggage was in the living room also, it too waiting for Godot, and waiting in vain. I stepped away and went to the kitchen, looked at the gas stove, then looked at the beautiful, colorful candles that decorated this model home. A home that was now tracked with blood.

  Saving Eddie Coyle was business. That was what I had been recruited to do.

  Eddie Coyle said, “I’m not mad at you, Dmytryk. Jackie was, but I’m not.”

  “What’s to be mad about, Eddie Coyle?”

  He motioned toward the dining room table. That was where Jackie had left her coveted novel.

  Eddie Coyle said, “Jackie told me. She told me about that writer, Abbey Rose. She called me when she was at the airport in Dallas. You let a witness get away. But I’m not mad at you. Jackie assumed you paid Abbey Rose four thousand to be quiet.”

  “I did what I had to do.”r />
  “But you didn’t do what you were supposed to do. No witnesses.”

  “She’ll stay quiet.”

  “They never keep quiet. They always want more money. And the L.A. job, don’t forget that the security guard died. Maybe in five years she’ll get a conscience and call the Feds. Or maybe she’ll write a book and name names. People will do anything for a buck. You made a bad decision back there, Dmytryk. Only one way to fix that. You saved me and pulled my brother’s body out of that basement. I’ll take care of Abbey Rose for you. In the morning I’ll get in contact with this Russian guy they call the Man in the White Shoes. He’s an assassin. I’ll transfer the funds and he’ll take care of our Abbey Rose problem.”

  I didn’t say anything for a moment.

  I said, “We have one other matter, Eddie Coyle.”

  “What is that, Dmytryk?”

  “That night we were at the Uniroyal tire. The gun I touched.”

  “Long gone. I’m not one to sit on a murder weapon.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re not a killer, Dmytryk. I won’t hold that against you. In my book you’re a legend, Dmytryk Knight. You’re a knight in shining armor.”

  I nodded.

  Eddie Coyle said, “Bishop’s wife and girlfriends are going to take this one very hard.”

  “Are you okay, Eddie Coyle?”

  “He was my brother. I’m not okay, but give me a minute to pull it together.”

  While Eddie Coyle grieved over his brother and stared at the stolen money, I took the gun from my waist and shot that miserable bastard in the back of his head. The nine-millimeter exploded and jerked in my hand, sent a wave of orgasmic energy coursing through my body, the same as it had done when I had stopped Jackie from double-crossing Eddie Coyle.

  Blood and brain matter sprayed.

  Eddie Coyle’s body jerked, then he went limp and collapsed hard and facedown on the wooden table. His weight shifted and he tumbled to the floor and landed on the side of his head. A mountain of money rested at his side. Enough money to pay off my mortgage, enough money to pay for grad school, enough money to go home and ride out unemployment and the rest of the madness that was going on from sea to shining sea. Eddie Coyle’s body twitched twice, then the lights went out. He’d stabbed me in my back and I had shot him in the back of his head. This wasn’t a coward’s way of doing business. This was fairness. This was an eye for an eye.

  I was a lot of things, but Eddie Coyle had forgotten that I was a man from Detroit.

  My father was from Detroit. My father had killed a man with his bare hands.

  That meant that living with regret was in my blood. I was stronger than he realized.

  As soon as the gun had gone off, Cora shivered in horror and staggered away from me, her mouth wide open, but no scream came out. She looked at Eddie Coyle and then her eyes came to me. She wanted to wake up from a bad dream. This was a version of me that she had never seen before. I was no longer a blue-collar man. I was a man who could be driven to rob and kill. What I had done was as unexpected as her walking out on our six-year marriage.

  This was murder. Crimes and hatred ended in that gritty and dark cul-de-sac.

  My eyes went across the room, looked at the photo on the novel Jackie had left behind.

  Killing Eddie Coyle was necessary. And it was personal.

  There was no need for threats or warnings.

  There was no need for a conversation.

  Eddie Coyle didn’t warn me that he was taking up with my wife. There had been no conversation, no consideration for what I might feel.

  We’d shaken hands and made a deal, and I kept my end of that deal.

  I had rescued Eddie Coyle and his friends. Until the end, I had kept my vows.

  And now I gave in to a dark part of me and sought my own vengeance.

  I felt no relief. I felt no guilt.

  I would’ve felt more emotion if I had kicked a stray dog.

  I faced my wife and said, “You’re shaking, Cora.”

  Her breathing was frantic and she took a step in retreat. But there was nowhere to run. I was the truth and there was nowhere she could run.

  I asked, “What’s wrong? Are you cold?”

  She didn’t answer me.

  I snapped, “Are you cold? Is it as cold here as it was in Windsor?”

  She took another step away from me.

  I asked, “Or do you need a five-thousand-dollar fur coat to keep you warm?”

  Cora tripped over furniture and fell trying to get away. I turned to my wife and raised the gun. The fear in her face and the animosity in mine screamed that we were heading for a two-bullet divorce.

  22

  With dead bodies decorating the town home and the detached garage, I went to the bloodied bag that held the weight of a half million dollars. It felt like bailout money.

  I stood over that money for a moment before I picked it up.

  The weight of that money in my hand felt like power.

  On a cold day, I felt its heat.

  On a dreary day, I saw its brilliance.

  As I walked out of the back door and limped across the small courtyard to the detached garage, gigantic snowflakes continued to fall. The bag was heavy and I was weak.

  I stood in the snow with that money in my hand, then focused on a spot about fifty yards away.

  My fedora caught as much snow as my wool overcoat.

  Ten minutes later I was easing out of the empty community, moving across narrow streets that led across the railroad tracks. From there I rejoined the rest of the world. I turned left and drove down Highway 11, back toward Six Flags over Jesus. Snow continued to fall from gray skies, skies that were getting darker as the day ended. My headlights were on and my windshield wipers worked overtime.

  Behind me, from the area that I had just left, there was a mighty explosion that sent shockwaves through Trussville. It felt like an earthquake. A short but powerful earthquake.

  As flames reached up and licked dark skies, I took I-65 and headed north.

  After I passed through Nashville, I threw my smoking gun away.

  23

  Weeks later.

  After the start of a new year, it was another brisk day in the Motor City. I loosened my scarf and took my gloves off, then adjusted my fedora and looked around. The day wasn’t as beautiful as it would become in the springtime, not as favorable as it would be after the bitter winter had gone away. A gray blanket covered the sky. The temperature was above freezing and that was enough to allow ice and snow to melt before winter’s frigid breath hit the city again. It was months before the heat of another horrid summer would arrive, weeks before hawthorns would start flowering and roses would bloom, but to me the day was beautiful. Maybe because there wasn’t anything better than springtime in Detroit and my heart looked forward to a new season.

  Detroit.

  Most people didn’t know that Detroit was a French word that was actually pronounced day-twah. The city of my birth was founded by a Frenchman whose last name was Cadillac.

  I thought about that history as I sat on the grass at Evergreen Cemetery. My parents’ tombstones were in front of me, grave markers that stood side by side, as they had in life. Today I cleaned their gravesites and put fresh flowers on each marker. Then I sat there for a while, silent, not hearing any noise that came from Woodward Avenue and the surrounding community.

  It was just me and my parents. My mother sat to my left and my father to my right.

  The wind soughed and a chill raked across my wool coat as we talked about nothing in particular. After about thirty minutes, I told Henrick and Zibba what I had wanted to say all along. The words didn’t come easily, but the truth rarely did.

  I said, “I might have to leave Detroit. It was a different place when you were here. People here are praying to deaf ears. I think some of that culture of corruption got into Cora. It got into me too. If a job comes through in another state, I’ll have to leave. There aren’t any jo
bs in Michigan anymore, and Detroit’s become the redheaded stepchild of the U.S. Nobody loves you when you’re down and out. Nobody loves you when you’re broke. It’s all about prosperity. All about money. The places we used to go on weekends are gone. They’re ghost towns and they want to bulldoze other neighborhoods. It’s pretty grim. It’s like New Orleans up here. Anyway, the house is on the market, but I won’t leave without saying good-bye. I’d never leave without saying good-bye. And I’ll come back to visit you.”

  I paused.

  I said, “I did some things. Some really bad things. I know you taught me better. Dad, I can see you frowning, but I’ll make you smile again. Same for you, Mom. I lost my way for a while. But I’m back now. Mom, Dad, I just need to ask both of you to forgive me.”

  Not long after I stopped rambling, I took out my pocket watch and saw the time.

  I kissed both tombstones and then I left. First I rode past the town home I used to own on the nicer side of town. From there I left the suburbs and drove aimlessly, past Wayne State University, the public library, Cadillac Place, St. Joseph Catholic Church, the luxury property on the riverfront and the Ren Center, the DPM roaring over my head as I stared across the Detroit River at Windsor, Canada. I cruised down Baylis Street, then drove down Normandy Street. This kingdom remained lined with trees, with homes for sale, and with enough foreclosures to remind us of the reality of the country. But everyone was still there. They were strong people. They were good people.

  I parked my Wildcat underneath a tree that was in front of my home, turned the engine off, and sat inside my car for about fifteen minutes. The windows were down and it was a beautiful day. I sat there staring at the FOR SALE sign out front, sat there until I started to feel the evening chill.

  When I went inside the house, every room smelled of lavender and every nook and cranny was clean. The house was always clean. Cora was inside the kitchen, dressed in a blue dress and high heels. She was cooking dinner. She’d just started. The dress looked good on her; I told her that. She smiled a nervous smile. The extra weight was gone from her frame. Her hair had been cut short, restyled into a pixie cut. It was trendy, but it didn’t look good on her. Still I smiled.