$200 and a Cadillac

by Fingers Murphy

  “Proof?” Victor was incensed. “Sheriff, I just told you we saw that young man, in that very truck, down at our plant yesterday. We know he’s involved.”

  “Well, if you know,” Mickey responded, balancing his weight, getting ready to move, “then you guys ought to have something to talk about while you wait.”

  “Wait?” Victor barely had the word out before Mickey’s hand darted into the car, over the steering column, turned the keys and jerked them out of the ignition with the deftness of a cat.

  “Hey, what is this?”

  Mickey took a step back, dangling the keys and grinning. Then he shoved them in his pocket and said, “You’ll get these back when I’m done.”

  Victor watched Mickey turn and walk back toward the Suburban. He turned to Tom and said, “You believe this shit?”

  Mickey heard the click of the car door unlatching behind him and he turned back, unsnapping his sidearm and drawing it. “Stay in the car.” He pointed the gun directly at Victor and took several steps toward him. “You are interfering with my investigation and I will shoot you if I have to.”

  Victor looked into Mickey’s eyes and could see he was serious. There was a flatness to them—no glare. They lacked the shine and glimmer of someone who was excited, propelled by adrenaline. These were calm, dead eyes. The eyes of someone who’d killed before and wasn’t bothered by it.

  Victor had seen those eyes in the heads of people like Howard Lugano. People behind bars. But here they were, staring at him from behind a gun and badge. Victor said nothing, did nothing. He just waited for Mickey to turn and walk away, wondering what the hell had happened to the guy to make him that way. And then he wondered what had happened to himself to make him sit still and take it. He suspected it might be the same reason he now lived in a tract home and pushed paper for a living. This is what his life had come to? Being made to wait on the side of the road like a child? It just wasn’t right.

  After a few long seconds, Mickey turned and walked back to the Suburban. He put the gun away and snapped the holster as he climbed into the driver’s seat. The air conditioned interior was cold, almost freezing, and Mickey felt a chill ripple through him. He threw the transmission into gear and took off down the dirt road. He could still see the trail of dust off in the distance.

  Ron shut the radio off. The rattle of the truck going over the bumpy road drowned out the music anyway. But it wasn’t the rattle that made him turn it off. It was seeing Eddie on the side of the road. It was nagging at him.

  There was a rational explanation. Justin Banner was a friend of his. They ran into each other. Maybe Eddie wanted to buy some weed, saw the Camaro go by, and flagged Justin down on the road. Easy enough. Logical enough. But it just felt wrong.

  He doubted the goons would try anything. They were dumb, but not dumb enough for that. He thought of their faces when he walked to the truck with the bloody bat in his hand. They damned near shit themselves. He remembered them getting back into the truck like a couple of kids who knew they were in trouble. They didn’t say anything. Not even when Ron pointed at the hitchhiker laying in the dirt and told them that would be them if they tried anything. Not even when one of the hitchhiker’s arms twitched and jerked up in the air as he turned the truck around. Nothing. They didn’t say a goddamned thing.

  And after that, Ron knew they wouldn’t try anything either. They knew they didn’t have what it took to take a guy like him. That’s why he’d agreed to use them. After listening to Janie’s stories about the two of them. How aimless they were. How spineless they were. He couldn’t have imagined a better pair. They were perfect. They just needed to be kept in line.

  When he crested the hill and saw the warehouse, he slowed the truck and studied it. He could see the front end of one of the tankers through the open front of the building. That would be Eli’s truck. The Dodge Dart parked off on the edge of the lot was Eli’s car, which meant Eli was there.

  Ron hoped Eli would have all the money so he wouldn’t have to wait around for Eddie to show up. He wanted to get it over with and keep himself distanced from this whole operation as much as possible. He didn’t even like being out here with the two of them. But there was nowhere else for them to meet. Ron let off the brake and the truck rolled down the hill.

  Hank saw the truck come over the hill and felt the energy surge inside him. He wiped the sweat from his hands and blew on them, trying to get them dry. The heat was making everything on him damp with sweat. He couldn’t risk dropping the gun. He couldn’t risk anything at all. This was a job that needed to be mistake free.

  The kid saw the truck almost the same time as Hank, and he immediately retreated to the rear of the warehouse, where Ron couldn’t see him. Hank watched the kid stretch his arms and roll his head back on his neck, trying to relax. Through the hole in the wall, Hank could hear the kid mumbling something to himself, but couldn’t make it out. Words of encouragement, no doubt.

  The kid made a couple of practice grabs for the gun. As though a few last minute tweaks of the technique would result in a perfect performance. And then, as he heard the crunch of Ron’s tires out on the gravel of the parking lot, he stood up straight and let his arms go loose and slack at his side. Hank could almost see the realization come over the kid’s face. It was time. Now or never.

  Mickey had driven faster than he realized, trying to cover some ground and get the Suburban close enough to Ron to be shrouded in the heavy dust trail. In the process, he’d nearly run into him. Mickey came to the top of the hill and saw the warehouse down below and the truck only fifty or so yards in front of him. He hit the brakes hard and backed up quickly to where he was out of sight of the warehouse.

  Mickey pulled the Suburban off the road, turning it sideways. He got out and left the door open, cranking the volume on the radio so he could hear it come on if Jimmy called. He crouched and crept over to the edge of the hill. Then he got down and crawled, keeping low and getting himself a good view. He figured he was a little over a hundred yards from the warehouse. Close enough to get down there quick if Jimmy told him what he needed to hear.

  Ron stopped the truck in the middle of the lot and left the engine running. He wasn’t planning to be there long. He could see Eli in the warehouse. He watched him open the driver’s door to the tanker truck and climb halfway inside. When he crawled back out he had a small backpack in his hand. Eli held the bag up and smiled at Ron, waving slightly.

  Hank watched the kid shift the backpack to his left hand, freeing up the right. The kid walked slowly out into the gravel lot, toward Ron, who still sat in the cab of the truck. The kid was trying to act casual, but he was trying too hard, giving it away in the process. His gait was so loose it was unnatural, belying his nervousness.

  Hank knew Lugano had been living the quiet life for a while, but Lugano was a pro and Hank was willing to bet he would sense that something was up. That was only the first of the kid’s many problems. The second was that the kid didn’t know who Ron was. The third was the kid was an amateur. The fourth was the placement of the gun. It was too far around behind his back, requiring too long of a reach. And that led to the kid’s biggest mistake of all: getting too damned close to the truck.

  Eli hadn’t known what to expect. He figured Ron would park and get out of the truck and come into the warehouse. That had been his biggest worry, the two of them just standing there, face to face. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to draw the gun quickly enough. But sitting in the truck, Ron was an easier target because he wouldn’t be able to move as fast.

  As Eli walked across the gravel toward the truck, he called out, “Hey.”

  Ron just looked at him. “I’m assuming that sack’s full of money.”

  Eli grinned. “It’s not quite full.” He unsnapped the top flap and opened the bag. He was almost to the truck, his brain racing now with unanticipated questions. When was the best time to do it? Maybe distract him with the money? Get the greedy bastard to focus on the money for just a second?


  Eli held the sack open and shook the bundles of cash inside. “Pretty nice, eh? And that’s not all of it. I’m waiting for Eddie to get here with the rest.” Eli handed the sack to Ron, reaching in through the window to give it to him. He kept the smile on his face the whole time, casually reaching back with his other hand. He heard the words come out of his mouth, but his brain was racing, trying to keep the movements light and quick. As he felt his fingers close around the grip of the gun, he saw an odd expression flash across Ron’s face at the mention of Eddie.

  But what did it matter?

  Now was the time.

  This was it.

  Mickey heard the radio go off in the cruiser at the same time he saw the gun. He could hear Jimmy talking, trying to get his attention, but he couldn’t make out the words. He watched the kid pull the gun out from behind his back where he had tucked it into his pants. It was a clumsy move, slow and obvious. Mickey could see it coming from a hundred yards away as soon as Eli reached for it.

  Ron could see it too. He kicked the truck door open and it slammed against Eli’s hand. The .44 exploded, sending a bullet off into the desert, and fell from Eli’s hand. Ron was out of the truck and on him in half a second, his right fist coming across the width of his body and against the side of Eli’s head in one swift motion.

  Eli had half a second of blackness before he came to on his knees, staring into the gravel, marveling at the brightness of the day. He craned his head up to see the silhouette towering over him, sharp against the bright blue sky. Wait, you don’t understand, it was all a mistake—he wanted to say it, to somehow explain it away, to take it all back. But then a blur came at him and he could taste the stinging, metallic wet of his own blood.

  Hank watched Lugano wind up and kick the kid in the face so hard it lifted him up and flipped him over on his back. He could hear something break, even at sixty or seventy feet away. The sudden, dull snap of bone beneath flesh. Probably the jaw. What would it matter, Hank thought? The kid was done anyway.

  It was time to move. Hank would get him while he finished the kid. While Ron was distracted by the act of killing, he would be killed himself. It would leave a nice explanation for the two dead bodies. A payoff gone awry. Each man killing the other. Perfect.

  Mickey was up on his feet, but still crouching, the instant he heard the shot. It was a primal reaction to the sound of gunfire, ingrained years before in a jungle on the other side of the world. A calm intensity came over him. He focused on the scene, tuning out the sound of the radio, the sound of Jimmy trying to tell him what he’d been waiting all afternoon to hear. Now was a time to act and not to listen.

  He watched the kid, writhing on his back, reaching into the air in front of him as though he were trying to pull himself up by some invisible threads that only he could see or grasp. Why had the kid attacked Grimaldi? What was happening at the warehouse? Was it connected to the body in the desert? Would it result in yet another body?

  Mickey watched Grimaldi stoop over in the dirt and pick up the revolver, turning it over and dusting it off. Then he reached down and picked up the sack he had dropped to the ground when he came out of the truck. His movements were relaxed, casual. He was taking his time.

  Eli’s vision was blurred, and he tried to wipe at his eyes. But he was having trouble getting his arms and legs to work right. Instead, he writhed and turned on his side and tried to spit the loose bits of teeth from his mouth, but nothing seemed to work. Everything was either numbness or sharp, shooting pain. He reached out toward Ron, groping for a hand up but finding only air.

  Ron stood there laughing at him. The gun in one hand, the sack of money in the other. “Eli,” he said, “you’re even dumber than I thought you were.”

  Eli struggled up to a kneeling position, facing Ron. His vision and awareness reassembled itself, and it was only then that Eli realized what had happened. How poorly things had gone.

  Mickey watched from the hill. Ron standing there. Eli kneeling before him. What were they doing? What was in the bag? Mickey heard the sharp static of the radio again. His focus shifted for an instant. And then Ron Grimaldi raised the gun and shot Eli in the face.

  Mickey watched the red cloud burst from the back of Eli’s head. The body flopped back against the ground, propelled by the force of the shot. He watched the execution with an amazed fascination. In an instant, just like that, and it was done.

  Then Ron stepped forward and fired another round into Eli’s chest. The body jumped like it had been kicked from behind. As though the Earth itself had given it a nudge in the back.

  Mickey was unsure what to do. There was nowhere for Ron to go. There was no way for him to escape. He should call Jimmy for backup. But that would take half an hour. What would he do in the meantime? What if Grimaldi tried to leave?

  Mickey had started to turn back toward the Suburban when he heard another shot. He turned to see Ron jerk sideways and spin around, his arms flailing outward from the centrifugal force. The surveyor was coming across the parking lot, aiming a pistol, looking for cover. Mickey took off at a run, down the hill, toward them.

  Hank came around the corner of the building fast, heading for the truck and squeezing off a shot before Ron managed to turn all the way around. The bullet caught Ron in the shoulder and spun him, but it didn’t take him down. Now Hank needed to get the truck between himself and Ron before Ron had a chance to recover. He didn’t make it.

  Ron saw the movement from the corner of his eye, but turned too slow. The bullet shocked him more than hurt him, piercing the outer edge of his shoulder and going straight through. He brought the .44 up, aimed for the runner, and fired without caring who it was or why he was there. And then a faint recognition came over him the moment he pulled the trigger. The recognition sent an alarm through him. This was someone he knew. A professional.

  That single thought almost caused him to fire a second time, immediately, without aim but merely in the general direction. But the man had already disappeared behind the truck. Or did he go down? Ron wasn’t sure, but he knew he’d better save the bullet. Instead, he ran up against the side of the truck, tucking himself low, against the driver’s side rear tire, trying to protect his legs from a shot under the truck.

  Hank did the same on the other side. He crouched up against the front tire, keeping his head below the hood. He looked down at his left shoulder. The flesh was torn open and he tried to pack the fabric of his shirt into the wound to slow the bleeding. At the same time he listened for movement and ran through the sequence of events.

  He’d been lucky. The bullet had barely hit him, but the large caliber had taken its toll. Any better aim and he’d be dead already. But Lugano had fired once at him and twice at the kid. Three shots. And the gun had gone off once when the kid dropped it. That was four. Only two shots left, unless he was carrying another gun—which seemed likely.

  Hank thought he heard footsteps somewhere and he turned quickly, rolling backward around the front of the truck and coming around the driver’s side. But Lugano hadn’t moved, he was crouched along the back of the truck. Hank got off another shot, but it was a bad one, thrown off by the surprise of seeing Lugano right there, barely ten feet away.

  Lugano jumped at the shot, firing as he turned. The metal of the fender wrinkled right in front of Hank’s face where the bullet went in at an angle before exploding the glass of the headlight all over him. He could see Lugano backing away from the truck, moving quickly toward the brush at the edge of the lot. Hank stood and moved on him, firing two, three, four shots as he sped up.

  Lugano stumbled slightly and then fired again as he turned to run into the forest of high sagebrush and Joshua trees. Hank was running now, thinking to himself, that was six, about the same time he felt the weakness in his right leg. He looked down and stumbled into the sage brush. The meat of his thigh was torn. The bullet had missed the bone, but it had taken a lot of flesh with it.

  For a second, he dropped his gun and lay there, res
ting his palms on the wound and knowing there was nothing he could do about it. Not now. Not there. His only hope was to finish the job and try to get back to town. Lugano was somewhere in the brush up ahead. Just out of sight. Probably watching him now, waiting to make a move. Hank knew if he turned back and headed for the truck he’d never make it. Lugano would get him.

  The sand stuck to his bloody hands as he pushed himself up and grabbed his gun. He lurched forward through the heavy brush. He could put very little weight on his right leg, which left him hopping forward on his left.

  There were small clusters of twenty-dollar bills every few feet. Hank followed them with his eyes, like a trail of crumbs. Up ahead and above him, he saw Lugano scrambling up a dirt rise, like a miniature cliff, barely taller than a man. Hank raised his gun and fired three more shots and watched Lugano slide back down the wall, clawing at the dirt as he slid.

  Ten yards further and the brush opened up on a dry streambed, the opposite side of which was a solid wall of cracked dirt. This was where the water ran when the rains came. A flash flood would course through this channel in the desert once or twice a year, and had for thousands of years, carving a miniature dirt canyon.

  Lugano lay against the opposite wall of the creek, facing him. Hank could see the front of his shirt was dark and wet. One of his last shots had found its mark. Lugano grinned up at him, a flicker of recognition on his face, and raised the revolver in his hand. He pulled the trigger and almost laughed at the dry click.

  “Well,” he smiled. “At least they sent one of the best to get me. Show’s a certain respect I guess. Might as well finish it. Your leg ain’t looking so good.”

  Hank smiled back and raised his gun. But the blood and the sand had worked their way inside and it jammed when he pulled the trigger. “Goddamn it,” he muttered, and then felt a weakness come over him from the loss of blood.

  Hank’s body sagged downward, into the dry streambed. He lay there for a moment. Lugano studied his face, searching his memory for a name. Then Hank crawled over toward Lugano and took up a large rock with both hands. Lugano laughed at the sight of it. “Seriously? Jesus Christ, man. Why bother? We’re both going to die out here anyway.”