“I found your little shrine to Monica,” Rob said, waving his gun toward the hall. “I took it all down. Don’t want a piece of shit like you to be connected to my girl in any way. You’re quite the fucking stalker.”
“No. It’s not what you think! I swear!”
“What is it, then? You working for Moloney?”
“Who?” Evan asked.
“That’s what I thought. How long?”
“How long what?” Evan’s eyes scanned the room, searching for an escape.
“How long have you been stalking her?”
“I haven’t been stal—”
Mort placed his gun to Evan’s forehead.
“I dare you to finish that sentence.”
“Ni-nine months,” Evan stuttered.
“Ah, so in all fairness you did find her first. Too bad. I just needed her for a job. She was my link to someone else. But she got me. I couldn’t help but want her.”
“So you understand,” Evan hedged, “her appeal. How amazing she is.”
“I understand her in a way you never will.”
“I’ll stop. I swear. I’ll leave her alone. Just let me live,” Evan begged through heaving breaths.
“Such a fucking coward. That’s not dedication. You’re willing to give her up to save yourself. She’s worth way more than that. It’s too late for you.”
“What can I do? What do you want?” Evan asked, thinking he’d trade anything to save his own life.
“I wanted you to stay away from my girl, but you just couldn’t help yourself.”
Rob placed the end of the silencer to Evan’s forehead and before the man could even beg for his life, he pulled the trigger. He didn’t wait around to watch the light fade from Evan’s eyes, he didn’t need to. The kill itself had been more satisfying than anything he’d ever felt. This man was a thief, out to steal his most prized possession.
The next evening’s news would report that Evan Randal, thirty-eight, was found dead in his home by his housekeeping service. There were no signs of forced entry and no witnesses. The police had no suspects.
18. Terminator
The boundary between night and day on a celestial body.
Barry stood near the corner of Chartres Street and Ursulines, awaiting the arrival of his former colleague. He leaned against the building, cupping his hand so that his cigarette would light in the night breeze. Though he’d never left the South, he hadn’t grown jaded or indifferent to its charms. He enjoyed the damp city air and the jarring horns of the passing river barges.
When not working for Dean Moloney, he loved to pass the time fishing. There was a peace to being in the space between water and sky. He felt small and insignificant there. It was a calm feeling, void of responsibility. His daughter always worried when he went out alone. She would tell him to wear his life jacket and don’t drink too much beer and always bring his cell phone. He would laugh at their role reversal and ask her how a cell phone could prevent him from drowning.
Sometimes Barry imagined sinking into the warm brackish water and feeling it fill his lungs. He thought it wouldn’t be such a bad way to go. On the other hand, it was also easy to imagine himself living out his last days drowned in women and whiskey from the Quarter.
He was an old man now. His graying hair and leathered face left nothing up for debate. His waist size and his bank account had expanded over the years, but not much else. What his physical age hadn’t taken from him, his time in the business had.
Moloney shared secrets with Barry. He confided in him and trusted him. While Barry respected and had pledged his life to this man, he knew the sentiment was not returned. Most days, he felt like an overdressed errand boy. This business was messy and dangerous. Anytime Moloney didn’t want to get his hands dirty, it became Barry’s job. He’d been taking orders for thirty years and was resigned to do so for the rest of his life.
Barry was uneasy about this meeting. His insides were churning as he thought about anyone catching him here. He was taking a huge risk meeting with Tristan, but he owed it to him. The boy had twice saved his ass during deals gone sour. It was the least he could do.
In all his years, he’d never met anyone like Tristan. The kid was smart—not just street smart but genuinely gifted. He had a cool head and a sharp eye. It hadn’t surprised Barry in the least when he’d quickly climbed through the ranks. Of course, it didn’t hurt that he was banging Moloney’s daughter. The news of Tristan’s departure from the organization had shocked Barry; he had figured him for a lifer.
As if on cue, Tristan rounded the corner, his appearance taking Barry by surprise. He was much larger now, a man in every way, and his tattoos had multiplied over the years. His trademark mess of inky black hair had been shaved down. Barry didn’t understand why kids these days wanted to look like damned hooligans. He was more of a tailored suit and silk tie kind of man.
“Barry, good to see you,” Tristan said, offering him a one-armed hug.
“You too,” he replied, stomping out his cigarette. “Shall we?”
Tristan nodded and followed him inside. The hostess, recognizing the regular, sat them in the back corner and immediately returned with two cold beers.
“Wow. Great service,” Tristan pointed out.
“You have no idea,” Barry answered.
They both laughed and fell into an easy conversation summarizing the last couple years. When this was done, Barry found himself at the bottom of his beer and the end of his patience.
“Down to business, then.”
“Well, the short version is that Moloney wants my girl dead and I need to know why.”
“I know he has a hit out on some cop’s kid, but nothing else. You remember Chief Delaune from Gretna, right? Ah, you would have been a youngster then. Back in the day, he couldn’t get anything on Moloney himself, so he ended up arresting a group of us for stacked misdemeanors. Delaune shut down business for nearly six months.”
Tristan nodded silently, wanting to extract as much information as possible.
“After the conviction, Moloney had Conners take out the chief’s wife. Made it look like an accident. Ol’ Earl Delaune must have gotten the message loud and clear because he took his kid and hauled ass across the country.”
Tristan almost growled at the dismissive way Barry spoke about Josie’s family. The rage built so rapidly, he felt a burning flush consume his body. He took a deep breath and calmed himself before speaking.
“Why is he after her? How could she possibly be a threat?”
“Ah, you know. Moloney has his reasons. Once he makes a decision, that’s it. Earl was talking to the feds, so we took him out. Was supposed to off the kid too, but she escaped. Pretty clever too. She broke a window and then hid up in an air duct. Moloney’s men thought she had squeezed through the bars on the window. When they left to search for her, she really escaped. Bested by a little girl.”
“She doesn’t remember anything.”
Barry’s eyes shoot up to meet Tristan’s, a look of genuine shock on his face.
“How would you know?”
“His daughter, that’s my girl.”
“No shit? What a small world!” Barry exclaimed. “Damn, man, that’s too bad. He’s had Mort on her for a while. How’d she stay under the radar for so long?”
Tristan eyed his former associate. He knew that the man was fishing for more information. He ignored the question.
“How close is Mort to finding her?”
“He’s in San Diego.”
“Shit,” Tristan whispered, scrubbing at his face with his rough palms. “That fucker would slit his own mother’s throat for the right price. He’s the typical model for dissociative detachment. I bet he’s even got psychotic symptoms.”
“I’m not sure what all that means, but he’s ice-cold, that one. Look, all I can tell you is that there’s been pressure on us lately to tie up lose ends. The Italians are not happy with Moloney’s growing business. Gino Gallo moved into town and he’s b
een trying to recruit us. Offering more money and a pardon for allegiance. He’s determined to eliminate the competition.”
Tristan nodded again because he knew exactly what Barry meant. Gallo was legit Italian Mafia. Moloney had flown under their radar for a while, but apparently his operation had gotten too big and they considered him a threat now.
“What are Mort’s orders?”
“I don’t know,” Barry answered.
“That’s bullshit, Barry. You know everything that goes down. Give me something!”
“Watch yourself, boy. I’m telling you the truth. This is personal for Moloney. He’s handling everything himself.”
Tristan cursed again and stood to leave.
“Thanks for the information.”
“Forget it, Fallbrook, consider us even. Get back to your girl and you two disappear. I don’t know, head down to Mexico or something.”
“I was never here,” Tristan said, knocking his knuckles on the table.
“Of course not.”
Barry watched the kid leave and groaned. He had given just enough information. And when the time came, Tristan would fall right into place.
* * *
Monica sat folded in half on Josie’s couch, painting her toenails a deep purple color called Pump Up the Jam. Josie watched Monica with curious fascination. She’d never seen a woman more in her element than Monica was now.
“I’m glad you asked me over,” Monica said, smiling to herself. “Rob and I had plans, but I told him we’d have to hold off. I need to hang with my girl.”
Josie smudged her penciled line on the paper, shading Monica’s face just so. She’d never been anyone’s girl before. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it. What did being someone’s girl entail? Was she expected to gossip about boys while they braided each other’s hair? Would she need to have Monica’s back in a bar fight? These were things that, being a twenty-two year old woman, Josie thought she should know.
“You didn’t have to blow off your boyfriend to come over.”
“It’s okay. I see him every day. I hardly ever see you.”
Josie wanted to roll her eyes at Monica but couldn’t risk offending her. She was so glad to have another human’s company that she’d do almost anything to keep her here. Somehow, Monica made Josie feel more normal than anyone else. She sighed and wondered when she’d become so obsessed with normalcy.
Monica leaned over and grabbed a book from the floor.
“You’re reading J. D. Salinger?” she asked.
“That’s for Tristan. They’re all over the apartment.”
“Oh.”
“Hey, do you have any cigarettes?” Josie asked.
“No, Josie. You know I don’t smoke.”
“Anything better than cigarettes?” Josie hedged, knowing she’d get a reaction.
“Are you seriously asking me for drugs?”
“Relax. I was kidding. I haven’t done anything besides smoke an occasional joint since meeting Tristan.”
“Is he one of those ‘Just Say No’ guys?” Monica asked, intrigued and thrilled by Josie’s confession.
“No. He would never be so judgmental. I think when he’s around, he fills all those holes that I usually try to block with risky behavior.”
Josie grinned and shook her head, amazed at how she now echoed the words of every therapist she’d ever seen. She wondered why on earth she would share this information with her almost-friend, Monica. A pressing weight sat on her shoulders and she hated that the conversation had just taken a serious turn.
“So he fills your holes, huh?” Monica asked, eyebrow raised in amusement.
After a few seconds of stunned silence, both of them burst into a fit of giggles. The air around them grew light again. When she finally was able to catch her breath, Josie genuinely smiled. Maybe this was what being somebody’s girl was all about, knowing and providing what you need when you need it. Josie feared that she’d never be able to carry out such an important responsibility.
Alex, hearing a ruckus through the paper-thin walls, came barreling in to find Josie wiping tears from her eyes. Shocked by the man barging into the apartment, Monica gasped, pointing her nail file toward him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, alarmed.
“Nothing! Calm down. You can’t come barging in here like a Power Ranger. We were just laughing.”
“Oh. Well, that’s why. Never heard that shit coming from this apartment before,” he answered. “Power Ranger, Jo? Those guys son jotos! Coulda made me something cool, like He-Man.”
“Oh, yeah. He was so straight in his loin cloth and classic bob haircut,” Josie answered, rolling her eyes. “Anyway, I don’t presume to know what you do in your personal life.”
“Mamacita, you of all people know that I like the ladies,” Alex responded, a victorious lilt to his voice.
Josie blushed.
“Oh, this is my … friend. Um, Monica. Monica, this is my neighbor-slash-warden, Alex.”
“Hi,” Monica said, waving her nail file at him.
“Nice to meet you, Um Monica.”
Josie flipped him off and refocused on her drawing.
“What were you gonna do? File me to death?”
Monica smiled and returned her attention to her nails.
“Heard from Tristan?” he asked, glancing back and forth between the two women, not knowing how much Monica knew.
Another involuntary smile graced Josie’s lips at the mention of Tristan.
“Yeah, I talked to him for a while last night. There have been some interesting developments.”
Alex assessed from Josie’s strained code language that Monica didn’t know anything.
“Okay, well, I’ll give him a call when I get back.”
“Where are you going?” Josie whined.
“Heading downtown. I’ll be back soon. Stay inside and out of trouble. For the last time, lock this fucking door!” he warned, pointing his enormous finger at her.
Josie huffed and waved him off. The door closed behind him and she scurried over, locking all three locks with an overdramatic flair before turning and crossing her arms in defiance. It wasn’t that she didn’t care about her safety, she just hated being told what to do. At some point, one of her shrinks had diagnosed her with oppositional defiant disorder. Of course, she’d argued that he was a quack with no logical explanation for this imaginary disorder. She’d told him to fuck off when he pointed out that she’d proved his point.
“Did he say to stay inside? What? Are you grounded or something?” Monica joked, wiggling her painted toes in admiration.
“Uh, kind of. Not really. Maybe a little bit,” Josie responded uncomfortably, tucking herself onto the sofa.
Monica looked up, suddenly aware of Josie’s conversational avoidance maneuvers. She’d come up against them more times than she could count.
“What’s going on?”
“I’m kind of in some trouble,” Josie answered, not meeting Monica’s worried gaze.
“Trouble? Like I stole a pack of gum trouble? Or I killed a hooker trouble?”
“Like we think we know who was responsible for my parents’ death and now he’s after me trouble,” Josie spit out.
Monica’s strangled gasp cut through the air and her trembling hands reached to embrace Josie. After the initial shock had worn off, Josie told Monica everything she knew. She hadn’t realized how much of a load she’d been carrying around by keeping the secret. When she was finished, she sat in silence, trying to calculate Monica’s reaction.
“Josie, we’ve got to go to the police,” Monica said.
“No! Monica, this is so far beyond the police. It would only make things worse. Tristan will figure something out. I know he will. I’ll understand if you want to leave. I mean, it could be dangerous to be here.”
Monica shook her head, knowing that she’d never bail on this girl.
“I could call Rob to come over?” she offered.
“No! You can’t tell anyo
ne about this!”
“Okay, okay. I won’t say a word,” Monica promised, though it pained her to do so.
The rest of the evening was spent in nervous silence. They each kept to their menial tasks, Josie sketching Monica’s worried face and Monica filing her already perfect nails. When it was far past Monica’s bedtime, she bid Josie good night, promising to come over the next day. She kept her brave face firmly in place until she reached the bottom of the stairwell. Within seconds Monica was on the phone with Rob, begging him to meet her at her apartment.
That night, Rob held Monica while she cried for the unpredictable fate of her friend. As she dug further into his embrace she was racked with crippling guilt, because she knew across town, Josie slept alone.
* * *
Josie woke the next morning, still bothered by the late-night phone call from Tristan. He had forced casual conversation on her, but she could feel something was off. His voice had been tense. Not wanting to add any stress, she kept things light. Josie told him about her night spent with Monica and how she hadn’t hated the experience. After a few minutes, Tristan said he needed to go but would call to check on her soon.
She stretched across her empty mattress and ran her hands over where Tristan should be. The material was cool to the touch and saddening. Josie crawled out of bed and dragged herself to the kitchen, hoping that Alex would be by soon with some breakfast or coffee. In nothing but a tank and boy shorts, she felt a chill in her apartment. It was uneasy, like when a stranger’s eyes linger on you for too long.
With only one foot in the room, Josie froze. The sight of a man seated at her kitchen table had her feet bolted to the floor.
“Hello, McKenzi,” the man said, not moving from his casual place at her kitchen table. “Or should I call you Josie?”
Panic seized her, making every muscle in her body rigid. Her head felt fuzzy and she couldn’t quite focus on the man before her.
“How the hell did you get in here?”
Her eyes darted to the door, all three locks firmly bolted. Quickly, she tried to calculate the probability of making it to the door, getting the locks undone, and out into the hall before he could catch her. She was no genius, but it was obvious that the odds were not in her favor.
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