“Bill?”
“There’s no Bill here, you have the wrong number.”
“Do you know where Bill went?”
“I don’t know anyone named Bill.”
I closed the phone.
The goose was still staring at me.
“Was that for you? Your name Bill?”
More doped-up staring.
“You’re happy now,” I said. “But coming down off that stuff is a bitch.”
The goose didn’t reply. I almost took a Xanax, resisted, and sometime between then and the morning I fell asleep.
Waking up was bad.
Everything hurt. Head, stomach, side, hands, nose, arms, legs, ear—
The damn goose was biting my ear again.
I shoved it away, stood up, and forced myself through a bit of yoga to stretch out all the muscles that had stiffened up. Then I padded to the bathroom, did what I needed to do, and found my way into the kitchen.
I screwed up the first cup of espresso, not understanding the machine.
The second cup turned out okay. I drank it, and shared some dry wheat toast with the bird.
The bird kept pecking at the toast, then throwing it off to the side.
It didn’t want toast. It wanted pills.
“Just say no,” I told him.
The clock over the microwave told me it was nearing seven am. I was thinking about going down to my truck, getting the cocaine, when Pasha woke up. She was in the bathrobe, the belt cinched as tight as ever.
“Espresso?” I asked.
She yawned and nodded. I made her a cup, and some toast.
“There’s chutney and goat cheese in the refrigerator,” she said.
I got it, and when she smeared it on her bread it looked a lot better than the plain toast I’d eaten, so I tried a slice.
Not bad.
“You were right,” Pasha said, her mouth around some crust.
“It’s about time you realized that,” I replied. “About what?”
“You said men wanted sex all the time, and women can pick and choose. Last night… I wanted to, and then I didn’t. And you didn’t push it.”
“Wouldn’t have been proper,” I said. “Not in front of the baby.”
The goose stared at me like, just shut up and give me drugs.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” Pasha asked.
“I used to. Been a while.”
“What happened?”
I almost said, “Earl.” Instead I said, “I left her.”
“Did you love her? I’m sorry. That’s personal.”
“I loved her. Still do. But I didn’t want her to see me like this, so I left. Are you seeing someone?”
“I was engaged. He was Hindu. He had expectations for his wife, and I wasn’t prepared to meet those expectations. We broke up three months ago. I haven’t been with a man since him. How about you?”
“The same,” I said. “I haven’t been with a man since you broke up with your fiancé .”
She smiled. “Why do men feel the need to try and be funny?”
“When it’s with other men, it’s so we don’t kill each other. With women, it’s because we want to put them at ease.”
“So you can sleep with them?”
I nodded. “And so they don’t kill us.”
She seemed to consider it. “I dated Davesh for two months before I slept with him. He never pressured me. The sex wasn’t very good. For him, it seemed good. For me, not so much.”
“Then it wasn’t good,” I said. “Good sex means good for all the parties involved.”
“So… with your girlfriend?”
“It was very good,” I said.
The goose honked, then shit on the kitchen floor.
“I can’t believe you brought that bird up to my apartment,” Pasha said, her expression stern.
“You told me to.”
Then she cracked a smile.
“You were kidding,” I said.
She nodded. I leaned closer to her.
“Worried I might kill you?”
She shook her head, maintaining eye contact.
“Trying to put me at ease?”
A nod.
I put my hand on her knee. She put her hand on my hand.
Then my damn cellphone rang.
“Yeah?” I said, unfolding it.
“Bill? It’s Freida.” A different woman from last night.
“This isn’t Bill. You have the wrong number.”
“Don’t tease me, Bill. I need to see you. I’m so horny.”
You and me both, lady, I thought. I closed the phone.
“You have a cell now?”
“Yeah. And apparently the number once belonged to someone named Bill.”
Technically, it still belonged to someone named Bill.
Pasha stood, then began to wipe up the goose poop with some paper towels. Whatever moment we’d shared was gone.
This was ridiculous. This whole situation was ridiculous. I was a born-to-lose white trash criminal, dying of cancer, addicted to cocaine and pills and alcohol, going up against a psychopathic mobster to protect an Indian doctor who was more attractive, smarter, and better than me on every measurable scale, and I was being cock-blocked by a Canadian goose who wanted to shake me down for drugs.
Pasha tossed the paper towel into the garbage. “I couldn’t have predicted this,” she said.
I shrugged. “It’s a goose. You’ve heard the expression like corn through a goose.”
“You know what I mean. Last week, my biggest concern was buying a new dress for my cousin’s wedding.”
I knew exactly what she was talking about. Life doesn’t give a shit about your plans. Some people win the lottery. Others inherit a strung-out waterfowl. If people could actually predict outcomes we’d all be millionaires and goose-free.
“Life happens,” I said. “You can spend all your time reacting. Or you can act.” I took her hands. “You have to figure out what you want to do, and then do it. Don’t allow interruptions.”
“Being in control is an illusion, Phin. You wouldn’t be here right now without a bunch of convoluted occurrences that were beyond our control.”
“You chose to call me. I chose to come.”
“Because some asshole chose to run me out of business. We’re both reacting. Not acting.”
“Then maybe we should start acting,” I said, taking her into my arms. I touched her cheek, brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, and then someone was pounding on the door.
The pounding scared the goose, who honked and ran straight into the refrigerator, ramming its head and knocking itself out.
I put my finger to my lips—the universal sign for quiet—and then hurried into the living room and picked up my Hardballer. I approached the door at an angle, so if someone shot straight through it they wouldn’t hit me, but I wasn’t sure what my next move should be. I could ask who it was, letting the person know I was there. Or I could quickly open the door and poke my gun out.
I went with the latter, easing back the deadbolt so it didn’t make a sound, then quickly twisting and tugging on the doorknob, my .45 thrusting through the crack—
—pointing directly at a familiar face.
“Bad form, Harry. You’re dead.”
He lowered his eyes to my midsection, and I saw a long tube of steel pointing at my gut.
“We’ll call it a tie,” said McGlade. He pushed open the door fully and slipped inside, his movement more graceful than I expected.
“You could have just said it was you.”
Harry smiled passively, and I understood what went unsaid. He didn’t announce himself, because he was testing me. Apparently there wasn’t a lot of trust for cokeheads dying of cancer.
“How’d you get through the security door without being buzzed in?” I asked.
“Pasha gave me a key. Didn’t she give you a key?”
She hadn’t given me a key.
“Nice little plinker you’ve got t
here.”
I followed Harry’s gaze. He was looking at my gun.
“Let’s compare sizes.” Harry held up a gigantic revolver that looked like it would dislocate your shoulder if you fired it with one hand. “Meet the Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum, favored by Clint Eastwood in the Dirty Harry movies and rhino hunters who like to get in close.”
“Are you overcompensating for something?”
“Always. Besides, you never know. What if a bear broke into your house, and he was wearing a bullet proof vest? And then he ducked behind the engine block of a 1977 Challenger? You think you’ll be able to take him out with that .45? Let me see that sissy gun.”
I held my Hardballer up alongside his.
“I can’t help but notice that mine is longer,” he said.
“Yeah. But you shoot too fast.”
Harry stuck his gun into the giant holster under his jacket. I noticed his shirt was tighter than usual.
“Body armor?”
“I’m not playing around. Mobsters are scary. Hey… want to see something cool? Kick me in the balls.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“C’mon,” he said, drawing the word out.
I didn’t kick him, so Harry rolled his eyes and gave himself a rough slap in the groin with his prosthesis. It made a THUD sound.
“A bulletproof jockstrap.” I said.
“Better. It’s a Kevlar diaper.”
What was it with all the guys wearing diapers? “I had no idea you needed one, McGlade.”
“I always wear diapers for stakeouts. You never know when you’ll have a chance to go to the bathroom.”
“Is that the actual reason you’re wearing a diaper?”
“As far as you know. My armorer made it for me. It can handle a 9mm slug at point blank, and four burrito supremes with extra beans.”
“There’s something wrong with you.”
“This is why you don’t have friends, Phin. You’re a dick.”
I couldn’t argue with that. “I have to go out. Keep an eye on Pasha. Call me if something happens.”
I went into the kitchen, where Pasha was waiting, holding the Derringer at her side.
“I’ll be back soon.”
She didn’t answer. When I moved to leave, she said, “Forgetting something?”
I turned, expecting a kiss. Instead, Pasha was pointing at the unconscious goose.
I scooped it up, and walked past McGlade, who was punching himself in the groin. He saw me and raised an eyebrow.
“Seriously?”
“It’s not what it looks like.”
“It looks like an unconscious goose. What did you do, slip it a roofy?”
“Get the door for me.”
“Is this some sort of date rape thing? Should I call the police? The ASPCA?”
“It hit its head.”
“Sure it did. And when its little eggs hatch, the babies are going to be bald and scowl all the time.”
“I don’t scowl all the time.”
“You’re scowling right now.”
“Just open the damn door.”
He opened the damn door. “I’m just saying,” Harry called after me as I walked into the hall, “you’re quick to judge me for wearing diapers, but you’re the one lugging around unresponsive poultry.”
I couldn’t open the door to the stairway with my hands full, so I pressed the call button for the elevator.
“Where are you two going?” Harry said. “South for the winter?”
I ignored him.
“Or are you off on some wild goose chase?”
“You’re not funny.”
“Yeah I am. And you need to be careful, or your goose is cooked.”
“You done?”
“No.” He paused. “Yeah, I’m out.” Then he shut the door.
The elevator doors opened, and just as I stepped inside, McGlade stuck his head back into the hall and yelled, “Will you take a gander at that!”
Heh. That last one was pretty good.
Back in the parking lot, I dumped the goose on a stretch of lawn, then made my way to the Bronco. Tape was still intact on the door. I pulled it off, flicking it into the parking lot—the key was to always peel it off completely so there weren’t dozens of pieces of broken tape that bad guys could see—and then I climbed in.
When I turned the key in the ignition, nothing happened.
I checked the headlights, in case I’d left them on. They were off.
I tried the radio. Nothing. Either the battery was dead, or a cable had come loose. I tried to remember the last time I’d done any sort of maintenance on the Bronco, and realized I hadn’t in a long time; you tend not to bother with oil changes if they’ll outlast you.
I reached down to pull the lever to pop the hood, but paused. The hood release worked via steel wire, which pulled back a spring-loaded lever to release the latch. If I pulled it, the hood would open a few inches, breaking the security tape I’d placed on there in case someone rigged a bomb to my engine.
But what was the likelihood of that? Was it worth getting out to check, when I was 99% sure it was just a battery problem?
I mulled it over. Earl was starting to act up, a pain beacon blinking in my side. My hands were stiff, and hurt almost as much as Earl did. I considered the cocaine in the glove compartment.
Rules are meant to be broken.
Which was bullshit. If they were meant to be broken, there was no point in having them. I silently told Earl to shut up, then got out of the Bronco and checked the hood.
The tape was split.
I couldn’t remember when I’d taped it closed. Or even if I’d taped it closed. So much partying. So many blackouts.
I was being a paranoid baby over nothing more than a bad battery. I scanned the parking lot, looking for Mafioso, not seeing any.
I reached back into the cab, popped the hood, and then went around to the rear of the truck and used my key to open the tailgate. In the tool box I found my mini flashlight. Taking it back around to the front, feeling more than a little foolish, I squatted and peered in the crack between the hood and the latch, and I was 100% sure that I wasn’t the one who’d tied a grenade to the radiator cap.
I stood up, taking a deep breath. Off to my right, my strung-out goose buddy had woken up, and was walking in a tight circle. I knelt down, and took another look.
I’d never seen a real grenade before, but this looked legit. Army green, round, with a ringed pin holding the lever closed. Looped around the grenade, attaching it to my radiator, was a plastic zip tie. Attached to the grenade’s pin was a wire. I used the beam to follow the wire, and judged it was about two feet long and attached to the hood hook.
From my layman’s knowledge of grenades, I guessed that if I lifted the hood all the way up, the wire would pull out the pin, and it would go boom.
Feeling unreasonably calm, I went back to my tool box, located some wire clippers, and spent another two minutes staring at the booby trap to make sure I hadn’t missed anything.
Then I cut the wire, and slowly opened the hood.
HONK!
I yelped, and immediately realized it was the goose, not the explosive.
“Now I understand Harry’s diaper,” I said, because I’d come within an inch of shitting my pants.
The goose nudged my leg with its beak. I ignored it, propped up the hood with the support rod, and got a closer look at my engine.
Besides the grenade, the only thing out of place was the battery. Someone had disconnected one of the cables.
I reattached the cable, cut the zip tie on the grenade, and picked it up. It was heavier than it looked. I stuck it in my jacket pocket, closed the hood, put another piece of tape on it, the driver’s door, and the tailgate, and then called McGlade.
“McGlade. Talk, it’s your dime.”
“Bring Pasha’s car keys and meet me outside.”
“What’s up? You want to make out with me in Pasha’s car?”
“
There was a grenade hooked up to my Bronco.”
“Were you killed? What’s heaven like? Is Marilyn Monroe still hot?”
I hung up on him. The goose pecked at my knee.
“Addiction is the only prison where the locks are on the inside,” I told it, quoting a poster I’d once seen.
It pecked my knee again. I took out my pill bottle.
“It’s my last Xanax. You want to take the last pill from a dying man?”
It honked, which I took as a yes. I shook the pill onto my palm, and the goose gobbled it up and waddled away.
McGlade showed up a minute later.
“Where’s your little feathered buddy? Did he get the flock out of here?
“Why didn’t you use that one earlier?”
“Just thought of it. Let’s see the ordnance.”
I handed McGlade the grenade. He whistled.
“M67 fragmentation grenade. You got the safety clip?”
“Isn’t that the pin sticking in it?”
“That’s the pull ring. The clip is an extra level of protection. Like wearing two condoms when you’re with someone especially skanky.”
“No clip. It was tied to the radiator.”
“That would do it. Blast radius of fifteen meters. Weighs fourteen ounces. You pull the pin and in five seconds, KAPOW!”
“You know a lot about grenades.”
“Wikipedia, in the elevator coming down. We checking Pasha’s car?”
I nodded. We walked over to it, popped the hood, and did the squatting and peering thing.
“That ain’t a dealer-installed option,” Harry said as we stared at another grenade.
I carefully clipped the wire, and as I was ready to open the hood, I noticed McGlade was gone. I found him, fifteen meters away, smiling and giving me a thumbs up.
He came back when I had the grenade removed.
“This isn’t good, Phin. One of you blowing up, maybe that could be mistaken for some faulty engine mishap. Both of you, that’s clearly murder. Big, noisy, messy murder, complete with national press and public outcry.”
“Mulrooni owns someone in the Flutesburg PD.”
“Maybe they could keep a lid on it. Maybe not. Once it’s on the news, you can bet the Feebies will stick their noses in. This is pretty reckless.”
“So they’re getting sloppy.”
“Not sloppy. Desperate. Mulrooni and his goons want you and Pasha out of the picture, even if it brings the heat down on him.”
Phineas Troutt Series - Three Thriller Novels (Dead On My Feet #1, Dying Breath #2, Everybody Dies #3) Page 11