Jonah said nothing and neither did Chase. The knee in his sternum hurt like hell but he’d known it would have to go down like this. And it didn’t hurt nearly as bad as that day Lila had kicked his ass on the garage mat.
Now they were going to drive around for a while until Jonah was sure they weren’t being followed. Then they’d finally take Chase back to their local hideaway.
He checked his grandfather’s left hand. Jonah was palming the .22.
The van hummed along. The girl was pretty good behind the wheel. Lying on the floor, Chase could feel the vibrations and shifts as she moved from lane to lane, driving easily and with a deft edge. From this weird angle he could see her in fine detail but upside down in the driver’s seat. She wore tight blue jeans that hung back off her hips, a black thong pulled way up, and a leather vest tight enough to nearly squeeze her tits out the sides. Putting it out there just daring someone to make a run at her. Flat muscular midriff on display, pierced belly button with a gold hoop. A small tattoo of a grinning dolphin on her stomach, poised as if it was leaping through the hoop.
Chase couldn’t figure her, and it took a minute for things to lock into place. Jonah must’ve felt like he’d slowed down a half step over the years and needed to make up for it. Dressed like that, the girl was there for distraction. Even a pro’s eyes would linger on her for an extra second, and that would help even things up.
Looking down at him she smiled sweetly. “I’m Angie.”
Chase said nothing, waiting for Jonah to feel safe.
She took the next exit and headed south toward the bay. In ten minutes Chase could smell the ocean. He decided they were holed up in the Islip area, somewhere around the ferry launch. Jonah must’ve gotten a room in one of the shabby motels just north of Montauk Highway. A once ritzy area that was now a bunch of cluttered dive neighborhoods. Former mansions broken down into low-income boardinghouses, outpatient rehab centers, and homes for the mentally challenged. A lot of seedy old-man bars down by the train tracks. It would be a good drop point if Jonah decided not to trust Chase. He’d get a few drinks into Chase and pop him with the .22, make it look like a suicide in the midst of despair after wrecking his car. Or just dump him in front of a Babylon local. The plan had holes in it but all the best plans did. It kept the cops stumbling.
The pressure on Chase’s chest eased as Jonah stood and Angie turned off the road, slowed, slipped into a spot at the curb, and threw it into park. The clanging bells of a railroad crossing erupted, followed by the scream of a whistle. A train was pulling in. Chase checked his watch—1:28. They were in downtown Bay Shore.
Angie looked back at Chase and said, “Come on, let’s get inside where it’s comfortable. No troubles, right? Wipe your bloody nose with the bottom of your shirt.”
Jonah gestured at the van door with his chin and Chase got off the floor, wiped his nose with his shirt, slid the door open, and stepped out. They were at a motel/bar called the Wagon Wheel. Tucked behind the station, the place looked like every other flop-house where the lifelong drunks and prostitutes shacked at the very end of their games. It was also the sort of spot commonly used as a meeting ground for thieves putting a string together and scheming a heist. Civilians never saw anything or remembered anything, and even if they did, they made unreliable witnesses for the cops. Chase had spent a lot of time in similar environments.
His grandfather put a firm hand between Chase’s shoulder blades, steering him to a room around back. Angie unlocked the door and said, “Welcome to our humble abode. Feel free to put your feet on the furniture.”
Chase sat on a ratty couch with no life left in the springs, backed against the far wall so he was the farthest person from the door. It would be how Jonah wanted it. Angie sat at the other end of the couch and Jonah took a ladder-back chair facing straight on. Usually it would’ve worked the other way around, you always sat as deep in the room as possible in case somebody kicked in the door. But when you were watching somebody, like his grandfather was watching him now, this was the only way to work it.
For the moment it was Jonah’s play. Chase waited. He was losing patience fast but figured he could hold on until—well, until he couldn’t any longer.
“Let’s have a drink,” Angie said.
A bottle of scotch and some glasses were on the coffee table. She poured three fingers into each glass and pushed one in front of Chase. He threw back half of it in one pull.
The girl sipped, smiling, trying to put out a breezy atmosphere. She kicked off her shoes and put her bare feet against Chase’s leg. Her toenails were painted torch red, the same as her fingernails.
The only reason he knew the name of the polish was because Lila had once tried it and said, “Any woman ever approaches you with these nails who isn’t your wife, even if you spot her in the first pew of church Sunday morning, she’s a whore or practicing to be one.”
Jonah wasn’t good at dealing with people and Chase could see that Angie was the front player. It probably made her feel slick and accomplished, but all it meant was that if trouble ever marched in, she’d take the first bullet.
She moved her foot toward his lap and he wondered if she was just the playful sort who enjoyed prompting men or if she was hard like Jonah and this was some new challenge devised to test Chase’s sincerity. Whatever it was, now was the time for Chase to quit backing up and make a move. Jonah would be waiting for it. They wouldn’t be able to get the ball rolling until the tension broke.
“Isn’t this nice?” she asked. “So how long’s it been since you two old friends have—”
Chase flipped her legs aside and kicked the coffee table toward his grandfather. The old man was a little slower than he had been, but that didn’t matter much. He was primed and had something to prove. He dropped his left shoulder to bat aside the wobbly old table. It wasn’t going to hurt him. The .22 came up in his right hand and he started to lean forward. Chase did too.
Chase was fast. Maybe faster now than ever.
He could’ve snatched the gun away from Jonah like he’d taken Lila’s that first night. Chase’s head was crowded with doubts and misgivings about a lot of shit, but he had no question about that. He could’ve driven his fist into his grandfather’s belly or whipped low and bird-dogged him, tackling him across the lower legs and possibly shattering his knees.
Chase was certain he could’ve done any of those things, but none of them would get Jonah to help him. And it would wind up killing one of them. So he forced himself to hesitate.
It was painful doing nothing while you waited for the rest of the world to catch up.
The bottle of scotch hit the floor and bounced twice, landing right side up without spilling a drop. One of the glasses struck the radiator and shattered, the others rolled across the stained carpet.
Angie reached beneath a cushion and started to clamber off the couch, moving up behind Chase. She took tiny nips of air between her teeth. She’d cleaned her weapon recently and used too much gun oil.
Without expression, Jonah pressed the .22 to Chase’s forehead.
Maybe a full two seconds later Angie shoved a Bernadelli subcompact .25 into the mass of nerves under Chase’s left ear. It filled his head with electrical colors and his teeth started to sing, but he didn’t resist.
The three of them stood there like that waiting for the next moment to pass.
Staring into the old man’s icy-gray eyes, Chase asked, “Are you going to help me or what?”
Without lowering the gun, Jonah said, “Talk.”
Chase told his story as succinctly as he could, hardly mentioning Lila at all. The truth and depth of her, the perpetual excitement and warmth she pressed to his heart, it would be lost in the speaking. He knew Jonah wouldn’t understand revenge like this, where the act was more important than the payday.
Paring down the details of the last ten years, it only took Chase twenty minutes to lay out his whole life up to the moment that Lila was killed. It left him stunned and a little angr
y to realize it.
It took another twenty minutes to cover the rest of it because Jonah would need to know every detail Chase had found out about Marisa Iverson and her crew. He left nothing out. When he mentioned the part where he’d worked her over with body shots, Angie let out a wild laugh and said, “Chip off the old boy’s block, eh? Your technique must be genetic.”
By the time Chase was done his hair was crawling with sweat, but at least that part of it was over.
The next local came through, the whistle like a bayonet slicing through the slim, water-damaged motel walls. Now that he could relax he heard noises wafting in from the other rooms. The noise of a whiny john haggling over the price, trying to get a cut-rate deal on some kind of deviant action. The whore held steady because it wasn’t part of her regular policy. Working girls of her caliber didn’t go in for that kind of kink. Sixty extra, and he had to pick up another fifth of gin. A door slammed. A figure rushed by the window, heading for the bar to purchase a bottle under the table, which would cost him an extra ten over retail. This guy really wanted to do his nasty thing.
“How do you know I wasn’t in on it?” Jonah asked. “The ice score.”
Chase sat up. “At the time you were on the run after pulling a score with Matteo and Lorelli in Aspen. You tried to clear out two side-by-side mansions in a gated community, using a couple of the private security guards as inside men. One got scared at the eleventh hour and called the cops, hoping to be a hero. When the job went sour you nearly got pinched. It’s rough making a getaway from mountain towns. Both guards went down. Lorelli was aced. You left him there. A couple of his buddies apparently have issues with that. Now you’re in White Plains. Casing the Connecticut rez casino?”
“You did a good job of checking me out. You still have connections besides Georgie Murphy.”
“A few. Some of them helped because they respect you. Some because they hate you.”
“No,” his grandfather said, “it’s because you paid.”
“Sure, but it doesn’t change what they feel.”
Jonah kept those eyes like polished river stone on Chase, seeing if he could crack him with the stare. “Maybe you’ll give me those names later on.”
“No.”
Jonah nodded and turned away, thinking about it all so far, maybe realizing that he wasn’t as on top of the game as he thought he was.
The nasty guy came back, slammed his room door again, and got busy drinking gin and doing his thing. Chase gave a little more attention to Angie, who was sitting there making her silent assessments.
She had a natural provocativeness but wasn’t what you would call beautiful. Black hair, dark features, he thought she must be Spanish. Nose a little too long, her lips not quite matching up. Small, thin scars were almost hidden in the seams around her eyes. Some stitching indents at the corners of her mouth. She’d been mishandled and had had some plastic surgery along the way to put her looks back where they belonged.
He wondered how much weight her word carried with Jonah. Was she a full partner or just a piece of some string who’d come along with Jonah for the fun of it? Was she in on the rez deal, if there was one?
He supposed it didn’t really matter. She was merely someone else he couldn’t trust. The .25 wasn’t on view and he couldn’t decide if she’d jammed it back under the cushion or had it tucked somewhere on her person. If she had it on her, under those skintight clothes, he couldn’t figure out where it might be.
Angie spotted him looking and mistook his intention. She let out a little smile and held his gaze, attempting to appear demure. It didn’t work and she seemed to know it but was determined to give it a go anyhow. Maybe practicing on him, gauging his reaction. When she didn’t see what she wanted to see she glanced away, took an unbroken glass off the floor, filled it, and offered it to him. He threw it back. She poured another and sat there sipping it.
“Letting the woman go was stupid,” Jonah said. “She was the one advantage you had and you gave it up. Phoning them was even worse. Now they know you’re on to them.”
“I want them to know,” Chase said.
“That’s not the way to do it.”
“It’s the way I’m doing it. Are you going to help me or not?”
“Depends. I still don’t know what you want.”
“I want the driver.”
Only three o’clock, but the traffic was thick, bottle-necking them among a fleet of eighteen-wheelers as they hit some construction on Sunrise Highway. The road crews stood around holding jackhammers and shovels but not using them, and the left lane’s asphalt lay peeled open. The van didn’t have the best suspension and the stop-and-go jerking started to bounce the whiskey inside Chase. He shouldn’t have drank. He wasn’t used to it and the sourness made him think of the stink always drifting off Joe-Boo Brinks.
He looked over at Jonah and the Jonah inside his mind said, He wants to ace you, but he’s waiting. He’ll grab the score, put one in your head, and leave you at the scene.
Chase didn’t need to give Angie directions to his house. She already knew the way, which was pretty good for someone who hadn’t had more than a couple of days to set up the snatch and memorize the roads. He thought more and more that she wasn’t just along for the ride. Nobody had mentioned her being in on the Aspen heist, but Chase wondered if she’d been there with Jonah and Lorelli, and if she’d been the driver who’d gotten them out of the tight mountain town.
She caught his eye in the rearview. He still couldn’t figure her but decided to think the worst for now.
They came down his street toward the house. He got out, keyed in the garage door code, and said, “Pull all the way in.”
He’d taken down the heavy bag so there was room for the van beside the Chevelle. Angie threw it into park They got out and Jonah stared at the black Chevelle.
“You still got something to shred the road,” he said.
“It’s new,” Chase told him.
He opened the door to the house and led them inside.
“You don’t keep it locked,” Angie noted.
“You’ve got no burglar alarm. You’d think a cop and a thief would know better.”
Chase said nothing. It bothered him having Jonah here, in the home he and Lila had made, even though this wasn’t the same home anymore without her. It meant less and less to him every day. But he could sense his grandfather already scoping the silverware, checking around for loose cash, plotting to walk off with something. The loss of property didn’t matter, Chase had already decided to get rid of it all and sell the house. He didn’t regret giving everything up, but he didn’t want the old man to steal any of it.
Angie went through the fridge, grabbed fixings for sandwiches, and said, “We’re hungry.”
“Most of it’s probably stale.”
“That doesn’t bother us. Anything to drink?”
“Only what’s in there.”
“There’s nothing in there. Guess we’ll finish the scotch.”
Plural again. Angie spoke like she was half of an old married couple, and he wondered if he was hearing it right or reading into it. He could imagine them lovers. Jonah always went in for the young stuff. But he’d never heard a woman talk about the old man like a husband before. Jonah’s silence lent itself to the idea that he felt the same way about her. Chase regarded them without any interest as they both ate, throwing back the whiskey, Jonah eating and drinking the way he did everything else. With no wasted action, no sign of enthusiasm, utterly emotionless.
When he’d finished he asked, “So what do you need me for?”
“You already know that,” Chase said.
“Yeah, I do. You don’t want to get your hands dirty.”
“I’ll get them dirty, I just want you there to help me do what needs to be done.”
“Don’t talk in euphemisms, it only muddles the situation.”
“I’m going to kill the driver,” Chase told him. “The others too, if they get in my way. That clear eno
ugh?”
“You got the stomach for that?” Jonah asked.
“You either believe me or you don’t.”
“You said you nabbed the store’s security videos of the heist from the cops?”
“Yes.”
“Let me see them.”
While Jonah viewed the tapes in the den, Angie wandered the house touching stuff, picking up framed photos and putting them down again. Grabbing up knickknacks, the vases and candles, looking at the paintings and prints. Chase followed behind, watchful. She said, “You like clutter. Or your wife did.”
Chase had never thought about it before. He said, “You need to fill a home.”
“I wouldn’t know. Never had much of one. My mother croaked when I was nine. Uterine cancer. You ever see what that does to a woman? It makes her horrified that she is a woman. Knowing the part of her that is woman is what’s killing her. She died with this look of confusion and terror on her face. My father was a Cuban boozer who loved the Miami club scene and thought he was a gigolo for the pasty-white divorcees. If he was lucky they’d let him drive their Porsches home. They’d tip him like the pool boy. We lived in a two-room apartment. He’d spend eight hundred bucks on a pair of shoes, but wouldn’t have money to feed my sister and me. He got drunk at a club, hit on some drug dealer’s woman and got snuffed in the men’s room when I was eleven. He died with his head in the toilet. My aunt took us in. Altogether with her kids there were fourteen of us in her house. I started turning tricks as soon as my tits came in. Hooked up with a third-rate crew in St. Pete’s Beach a couple of years later. At first I was just there for laughs, but soon I was planning some easy jobs. We wound up moving around a lot for a while. Then I got on a string with your grandfather and stayed with him after the boost.”
“When was that?”
“Three years ago.”
“You couldn’t have been sixteen yet.”
“I wasn’t.”
She turned away just when she got to the part Chase wanted to hear about. “When did you go to the cosmetic surgeon?”
The Cold Spot Page 12