by David Gordon
Then Renard yelled from the bedroom. Holy shit, what the fuck! Richie dashed into the next room with Dirk sprinting behind him. Eddie told Doreen to wait here, but she followed right on his heels. Judith had been bound to the bed hand and foot with duct tape. Her eyes bulged and foam drooled down her chin where the tape had been pulled from her mouth. Eddie understood immediately what had happened but said nothing, a hand on Doreen’s arm. Renard was shaking her shoulder. Wake up, bitch! She passed out or something. Richie leaned over her, setting his gun on the night table. Judith! He yelled into her empty face as if down a well. Wake up! Time to go! With a cry, Doreen shook Eddie off and rushed the bed, pushing Richie aside. She lifted Judith, hugging her close and rocking her like a baby as more liquid leaked from her slack mouth. Doreen wailed. Dirk wailed too. Oh fuck, she pulled a fucking Hendrix.
Enraged, Doreen turned on Richie. You killed her, you fucking killed her! I didn’t, he yelled. It was Retard. He shouted at Renard, You’re the one who fucking taped her. But you told me to, he whined, pulling his hair. Doreen began punching and slapping Richie, and he just cowered, beside himself with panic. She cried and moaned. Call an ambulance. Eddie, please.
Those words seemed to electrify Richie, who was starting to realize how much trouble he was in. Come on, let’s get out of here, Eddie whispered, reaching for Doreen, but it was too late. Richie screamed, Nobody’s going nowhere, hold them, Dirk, and as Dirk stepped forward, reaching for his gun, Eddie saw where this was going. Three dead bodies to dispose of, however awkward, was better than two live witnesses. So instead of backing away from Dirk he moved toward him, closing the gap between their bodies fast and putting Dirk between himself and the others. With his left hand he grabbed Dirk’s right wrist and twisted hard, grinding the small bones painfully. Dirk winced and hesitated, just a moment but enough. With his right hand Eddie pulled the .45 from Dirk’s waistband and, pushing the barrel into his abdomen, shot him twice through the gut.
The force of the blast propelled Dirk back and Eddie shoved him into Renard, who was fumbling for his own gun. Richie and Doreen were both still turning to look, stunned by the deafening bangs, barely grasping what had just happened. Dirk fell dying against Renard, and Eddie leaned over and carefully shot Renard through the thigh. He whimpered as the hole in his jeans filled with blood and crumpled to the floor with Dirk’s corpse slumped over him. Eddie wheeled left, bouncing Doreen roughly onto the bed, and made for Richie, who was just that moment remembering that his gun was on the night table, a foot or two away. Eddie pressed the hot barrel of the pistol to Richie’s forehead. Don’t move, he said. Nobody fucking move.
Richie froze with his mouth open, like a fish, blinking spasmodically as his eyes tried to focus on the gun between them. Eddie spoke calmly. Tell Renard not to fucking move or I will blow your brains out. Richie said, Don’t fucking move, Retard. I can’t fucking move, Renard whined from the floor. He shot me.
Doreen, Eddie said. She was in shock and looked up vaguely at her name. Doreen, he yelled. She looked at him, seeming to wake up. I need you to go get Renard’s gun, honey. Can you do that? She nodded and went, grimacing when she saw the wound and briefly shutting her eyes when she had to roll Dirk’s torn corpse to the side, but she held up the 9. Good, Eddie said, now get Richie’s gun from the table there. Careful, walk around us slow. She did that too, and showed him the guns in each hand. Don’t kill us please, Renard said from the floor, then added, I need a doctor.
Look, Richie said, voice low, quavering, afraid to even work his mouth with the gun pressed to his skull. We can work this out. My uncle can take care of everything. He’s a boss. He can help us.
What’s his name this uncle? Eddie asked.
Richie. I mean his name is Richie like mine. I mean I’m named after him.
Calm down, Eddie said. What is his last name?
Richie, Richard Caprissi.
Richie Caprice? Eddie asked, unable to contain a small grin. Copcar Richie is your uncle?
Yeah, that’s him, you know him?
Since before you were born. He must be very proud. You’re Vanessa’s kid?
No, my mom is Uncle Richie’s cousin. I just call him that. I’m from Lodi.
OK, let’s call him, Eddie said, and see if he can help. I’m going to put the gun down and you’re going to help Renard into the living room. OK? Richie nodded. OK, let’s go, Eddie said, nice and easy. Doreen, you bring the guns.
So they moved like Eddie said, with Richie helping Renard hop to the couch. Eddie had Doreen put the guns in a plastic takeout bag she found lying on the floor, then bind Renard’s wound with a towel. Eddie told him he would be OK. The bullet had passed cleanly through the meat of the thigh without hitting any arteries. If you were going to die you’d have done it by now, Eddie said, and let him snort a line of dope off the coffee table, which seemed to quiet him down. He sniffled, nibbling at some pills that were mixed in with potato chip crumbs and ashes. Meanwhile Richie called the uncle and bashfully explained the problem. You could hear the old man cursing through the phone. Richie winced. Let me talk to him, Eddie said, and took the phone. Hey, Richie, he said, guess who? It’s Eddie. Eddie-Eddie, from the old days. Yeah, Deadly Eddly. He laughed. Fuck, I haven’t heard that one in ages. He listened awhile, chuckling occasionally, and Richie and Renard whispered on the couch. Doreen observed all this with a sharpened glance. She seemed to be slowly returning to herself, as if her startled spirit were slipping gingerly back into her body. All right, Eddie was saying into the phone. No problem. He handed it back to Richie. Here. Yes, sir, Richie said into the phone, sitting up straighter on the couch. I understand. He hung up.
First of all, Richie said to Eddie. He started to stand, but sat back as he remembered the gun. First of all, sir, let me apologize. I sincerely meant no disrespect. I didn’t realize who you were.
Eddie shrugged. Now you know. He switched gun hands to shake.
Yes, sir. My uncle talked about you all the time.
And let me add, sir, that it is a real honor to meet you, Renard piped in, pain dissolving in the flow of opiates. His pupils were black pinpricks. Sorry about before.
That’s OK, kid. Eddie smiled. No hard feelings.
Damn, Renard whooped. Crazy Eddie! Tell us about the time you capped those three motherfuckers inside that taxi.
No, Richie said. The best is the one about the fork, remember, Retard?
Oh shit, right, Renard said. That is fucking awesome.
My uncle told me about that when I bought myself an Uzi, Richie explained. Sweet little piece, right, but Uncle Richie says, Remember, it’s not the biggest gun or the biggest guy who wins. It’s the ruthlest motherfucker in the room. Then he says, My old buddy Deadly, he’s only five-five—no offence. Eddie shrugged. Deadly is in a diner. Sitting in a booth unarmed eating breakfast. About to sip your coffee when that big mook Jimmy Sausage pulls a fucking Magnum.
I love this part, Renard blurted. Go on. Sorry to interrupt.
So what do you do? Richie asked. Cool as fuck, you splash hot coffee right in his eyes, then grab your fork and stab him in the fucking jugular. Bam, he bled right the fuck out in the booth.
Fuck yeah, Renard yelled, clearly high now.
And then, Richie went on, talking to Renard as if Eddie wasn’t there. Then he pays the bill, leaves an extra big tip for the waitress, and says, Sorry for the mess. The two boys laughed appreciatively.
So cool, Renard said.
That’s when my uncle said, I’d bet on Eddie with a fork over an Uzi or Magnum any day. You know why?
Eddie shook his head, smiling ruefully. Richie shouted, and Renard joined in happily, Because he’s not afraid to fucking stick it in!
They laughed and high-fived, and Eddie snapped his fingers to get their attention. OK, party’s over. Let’s get moving. You boys can finish sucking my dick in the car. So they took off, Eddie driving, and headed over to this bakery in Ridgefield to see the uncle. Doreen still looked like she was sle
epwalking. Had it really been only the afternoon before, still less than twenty-four hours ago, that she and Judith were running away to Florida together? Had it only been a day before that she was in class, a somewhat normal girl leading her somewhat normal life? If everything that had happened in that house had completely turned her mind inside out, the bakery was the final twist. Up front it was an old-style Italian bakery with a ticket machine for taking numbers, a canister of string hanging from the ceiling, and a heavyset mustachioed lady in a hairnet behind a glass case full of wetly gleaming cannolis and éclairs and pignolis and anisette toast with stacks of yellow and brown semolina bread on the shelf behind. In the back was a room with tables and chairs and a waiter in a uniform, but there were no regular customers, no kids or families eating cake, just men sitting around, smoking, drinking espressos, playing cards, who all acted like Eddie was their long-lost hero as soon as they walked in. A skinny older guy in a tracksuit and blue-tinted shades, a fat guy so huge Doreen thought the little metal café chair was going to get wedged in his ass crack when he got up, a couple of younger muscled-up dudes in tight Armani tops, expensive jeans, tattoos, and hair like carved lacquered wood—they all hopped right up to hug Eddie and slap him on the back, as if him shooting two dudes and spanking the nephew was the greatest thing ever. They called him Crazy Eddie, Deadly, Dudley Do-Wrong. They all rushed to light his cigarette and then parted as an even older guy, slope-shouldered with sky-blue golf pants across his round belly and a polo shirt and glasses on a chain, gray hair sprouting like crabgrass from ears and nose and eyebrows but gone from his smooth, shining brown skull, shuffled forward and gave Eddie a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. Eddie introduced her.
Richie, this is Doreen. How do you do, sweetheart, it’s a pleasure, the old guy said, squeezing her hand in both of his. I’m so sorry for all the trouble. Have a seat, please. Richie, he told his nephew, take your friend and go with Dominic to the doctor. At this the fat guy got out his keys, and Little Richie and Renard hustled off with more handshakes and apologies for Eddie. Then Richie, meaning old Uncle Richie, ordered cappuccino and cheesecake and some assorted cookies for Doreen before he took Eddie by the hand and led him back into the kitchen. There was a guy in there in an apron mopping up, but he left when he saw them lean on the counter. Richie sighed dramatically and shook his head. What a fucking mess. Family, huh? A real pain in the ass that kid.
Hey, Eddie said. It is what it is. What are you gonna do?
I appreciate that, Eddie. As far as I’m concerned, we can call it even. Hey, who knows? Maybe you scared some sense into the kid. Believe me, it ain’t like in our day. Bunch of amateurs now. I could use you. If you ever need a job.
Get the fuck out of here. I’m retired. I just know the girl from around, you know.
Yeah, speaking of. That could be a bit of a problem, Eddie. Kind of a loose end. I mean you’re a rock, we all know that. Richie’s dumb, but he’s family and the kid they call Retard is his boy. But this girl. Her we don’t know.
Yeah, Eddie said. I see your point.
You get me?
Yeah.
I can have one of the guys handle it.
No thanks, Richie. I don’t mind.
OK, good. Richie patted his hand. However you’re more comfortable. Not around here, though. I can’t even fart anymore without the Feds sniffing my shorts. Believe me you’re lucky to be out of it. Remember the house in the woods?
The place we went fishing that time?
No, my wife’s mother’s old place, remember?
On the hill? With the gate?
Yeah. Nanette kept putting off dealing with it, then she got sick and you know. It’s for sale but we can use it. Bring her there tonight.
OK, Richie. And listen, I was sorry to hear about Nanette. She was a great lady.
Yeah, thanks, Richie said. We got the flowers. It meant a lot to me. And you’re sure you’re OK doing this? I understand if you feel sentimental about it, like if you were banging her or whatever.
No, I don’t mind.
Richie smiled, showing brown and gold teeth and only the fake ones weirdly white. Same old Eddie. At least some things never change.
Eddie fetched Doreen and they got back in his Caddy. She’d been hungrier than she realized and had devoured all the cake and half the cookies, which she had to admit were all amazingly good, and now as soon as they pulled away she asked him in a rush everything she couldn’t before. Eddie had to wait for her to exhaust herself before he could even answer. Yes, he knew these people. Yes, he used to work with them. Yes, the stories they told were true, more or less. Even the one about the fork? Pretty much. But they left out the part about how I ended up in prison for ten years. For that? For a bunch of things. Anyway, that’s where I got into painting.
Eddie dropped her at his place. He told her to relax, take a bath, have some wine and try to calm down but not to leave. Everything was going to be fine. She just had to wait till he got back and then they’d talk. She was too freaked to go anywhere anyway. She took a hot shower and then sat on the couch where she used to pose, wrapped in a towel, petting Felix the cat and letting her hair dry.
Eddie drove back to his storage space. He opened the locker again, and this time he lifted the tray full of cash and got out the two pistols he had hidden underneath, one a long-barreled Magnum revolver, one a small semiautomatic that was easier to conceal. He cleaned and loaded both by the single lightbulb in the storage space and put them back in the locker. He took out some of the cash, then relocked the box and put it in his trunk. He threw everything else in the storage in the trash, including the key. Then he drove home. When he came in with the locker, Doreen was still on the couch, although the cat had gotten bored and wandered off to crunch some kibble. Eddie told her to go get dressed, and while she was upstairs he called a cab and stuffed the cash from his pocket into a manila envelope. When she got back he sat her on the couch.
Here, he said, handing her the fattened envelope. That is thirty grand.
What? she asked him. What for? She opened the envelope and started ruffling the bills in amazement.
Listen to me. He pushed the envelope closed. There’s a cab coming to take you to the airport. You don’t go home. You don’t call anyone. Give me your phone. She reluctantly took it from her purse. He smashed it under his shoe.
What the fuck, Eddie, you’re scaring me.
Good. You should be scared because this is scary shit. You understand me? This is real life. School is over. You don’t go home. You don’t pack anything. You have plenty there to buy what you need. You pick a place you always wanted to go. But not somewhere you know anybody. Someplace new. You buy a ticket tonight and you go. And you don’t come back. Ever. If you come back, if you stop, if you turn around, you’re dead. Do you understand me, Doreen?
The whole time he spoke she had been crying, tears streaming over her cheeks while she shook her head and her fingers gripped at his. He squeezed back now and asked her again, Do you understand me, and she nodded, yes, she did. But what about you?
I’ll be fine, he said. I just have to tie up a few loose ends. The cab honked outside. Eddie could see it in the driveway. I mean, she said, can’t you come with me? Can’t we meet up?
Sure, Eddie said. Later. He scribbled a few words on her envelope. When you get settled in your new spot, you wait a month and then write me at this email. No names no details no location, just hi, how are you. I’ll know it’s you. If I answer, then it’s safe for us to meet. If I don’t, wait a month and try again. OK? She nodded. The cab honked again. OK, he said. Let’s go. He walked her to the door and she hugged him tight. Thank you, she whispered in his ear. That’s OK, kid, he told her. Forget it. She shook her head and said, No, never, and kissed his cheek, but he knew that she was very young and that eventually she would.
When the cab left, Eddie realized how hungry he was and how tired. He cooked a steak that was in the fridge. He ate most of it, gave the rest to Felix, and then we
nt upstairs and took a nap with a loaded gun on the mattress beside him. When he woke up, he got scissors and needle and thread. Sitting at the table in his boxers, glasses on his nose, he slit open the lining of his suitcase and layered in all his cash. He stitched it up and packed his essentials, some clothes, his reflux meds, heart pills, an extra pair of reading glasses. He took a shower, shaved, and got dressed. He went downstairs, it was starting to be sundown now, and gathered up all his work, his paintings, drawings, sketch pads, and burned them in the barbeque out back. He had to hack up the bigger paintings with a hatchet, and some of the oil paint smoked thickly, but the wind was high and he didn’t think the neighbors would complain. He put the suitcase in his backseat. He attached a silencer to the automatic and put the guns in the two side pockets of his jacket. He locked up, carrying Felix under his arm. Outside, he took his collar off and set him free. Then he drove out to the country, to Richie’s wife’s mother’s old house.
It was dark now, and when he pulled up to the gate, he flashed his lights once and honked lightly. One of the Armani-wearing muscle dudes from the bakery pulled back the rusty gate and waved him into the drive. The Denali and Lexus were both there too.
Hey, Eddie, Armani said. Where’s the girl?
In the trunk. I’ll pop it, but you do the lifting. My back is killing me. I’m way too old for this bullshit.
Armani laughed. No problem. Eddie closed his door and followed the kid around to the back, then pressed the button on the key chain. The trunk unlatched and Eddie stepped behind him, pulling out the silenced gun as the kid lifted the lid. Huh, he said curiously, as Eddie shot him in the base of the skull. He fell like a log and Eddie rolled him down the slope of the driveway into the shrubs. The door to the house opened, and the skinny guy in the tracksuit stepped out, peering into the darkness. Eddie hid the gun behind his back and walked quickly toward him.
Hey, Jerry.
Hey, Eddie, where’s Paul?
Getting the girl out of the trunk. You better give him a hand. Kid’s making a mess of it. Richie inside?