Carnes made no sound or movement, but his anger was as palpable as heat from an open furnace. The silence grew long and prickly. The humming of the Caddy’s tyres seemed to register the increase of tension.
‘That Lisa Olson deal,’ said Milchuk tentatively. ‘Those assholes flashin’ her in the Pats locker room, that was the worst, man.’ He glanced at Penner, his face stamped with an expression of concern. ‘I ain’t sayin’ I don’t have problems with women in the locker room, y’know, but geez!’
‘Now that’s terrific, that is,’ said Carnes. ‘It’s really great gettin’ an education on how to treat broads from the guy cornholed Lori McDonough.’
A look of bewilderment washed over Milchuk’s stolid face. ‘What’re you talkin’, man?’
Carnes slammed his hand against the steering wheel and shouted, ‘You raped her, you fuckin’ Polack sleaze! You raped her, then you fucked her up the ass!’
Milchuk sat stunned for a few beats. Then he said, ‘Fuck I did! Hey!’ He turned to Penner. ‘That what this is alla ’bout, man? I didn’t do nothin’ to Lori. I been goin’ out with her six months. This is fuckin’ nuts! We been talkin’ ’bout gettin’ married, even!’
Penner said, with unconvincing sternness, ‘Take it easy,’ and poked him with the muzzle of the gun as a reminder. He felt queasy, nauseated.
‘It was Lori’s old man hired you guys, wasn’t it?’ said Milchuk. ‘It hadda be. Look, I swear to fucking Christ, I didn’t do nothin’! It’s her old man. He’s against me from the start, he told me he didn’t want me sniffin’ around her.’
‘Guess you shoulda listened, huh?’ said Carnes brightly.
‘I didn’t do nothin’, man. Swear to God! All ya gotta do is to give Lori a call.’
‘Maybe we should,’ said Penner, trying to hide a certain eagerness.
‘Yeah!’ said Milchuk. ‘Call her, for Christ’s sake.’
‘You musta done somethin’,’ Carnes said to Milchuk. ‘Maybe all you are’s a pain in the ass to McDonough. But a guy like you, you musta done somethin’.’
Milchuk put both hands to his face. ‘This is crazy,’ he said into his palms. ‘Crazy!’
‘How you figure?’ Penner asked of Carnes. ‘You don’t even know the guy!’
‘Oh, I know him,’ Carnes said. ‘He pals around with the Vitarellis down in Providence. He’s a wise guy. You better believe the son of a bitch got blood on his hands. Whackin’ him out ain’t no worse than steppin’ on a cockroach.’
‘He’s with the Mob?’ Penner said, incredulous. ‘We’re supposed to hit a Mob guy?’
Without reducing his speed, Carnes swung onto a gravel road that wound away through low thickets, the leaves mostly gone to brown. The Caddy soared over bumps and ruts, landing heavily, its rear end slewing. Black branches slapped at the windows.
‘Nobody said anythin’ ’bout hitting a Mob guy!’ Penner yelled.
Milchuk gripped the front seat with both hands and began talking, half-sobbing the words, offering a string of temptations and threats of Vitarelli vengeance, like a strange, primitive prayer. Carnes’ only response was to increase their speed. The Caddy seemed to be trying to lift off, to go sailing up into the sky of broken silver light and black clouds. The world beyond the side windows was a chaos of tearing leaves and clawing twigs.
‘So whaddaya wanna do, man?’ Carnes shouted. ‘Wanna let him go?’
‘Yes!’ said Penner. ‘Fuckin’ A, I wanna let him go!’
‘Okay, say we do it, say we let him go. Know what happens next? The son of a bitch goes to the Vitarellis, he says, Chuckie, man, Chuckie, he says, that fucker McDonough tried to put a hit on me, and Chuckie says, we can’t have that shit, now can we, and he sends his people up to Southie. And you know who gets it? Not McDonough. Nosir! It’s you and me, buddy! We wind up on a beach somewheres with our dicks hangin’ out our mouths.’ He swerved the Caddy around a tight bend. ‘We’re fuckin’ committed, man!’
The thickets gave way abruptly to a grassy clearing centred by the grey-shingled ruin of a one-storey house, nearly roofless, with a shattered door and glassless windows; it looked out over the Atlantic toward a spit that rose at its seaward end into a pine-fringed pinnacle standing up some sixty feet above the water, the highest point of land in sight. Carnes brought the Caddy to a shuddering halt and switched off the engine. The rush of silence hurt Penner’s head. Carnes turned to them, resting his elbow on the seat. A silver-plated gun dangled from his hand. He grinned at Milchuk.
‘Party time,’ he said.
Milchuk met his eyes for a second, then hung his head. All thought of resistance seemed to have left him.
‘Outside,’ Carnes told him, and without hesitation or objection, he opened the door and climbed out. He still clung to his briefcase, still held it against his chest. His face slack, eyes empty, he stared off over the water.
Penner slid out after him. After so many hours in the car, standing in the open disoriented him. The world was too wide, too full of light and colour, the soughing sounds of the waves and the seething wind; he could not gather it all inside him. He kept his gun trained on Milchuk.
‘Drop the gun,’ said Carnes, coming up behind him.
Startled, Penner made to turn but stopped when the muzzle of Carnes’ automatic jabbed into the side of his neck. He let the gun fall, and Carnes kicked him in the back of the legs, driving him to his knees in the tall grass. Another kick, this directly on the tailbone, sent him onto his stomach.
‘Still curious ’bout why McDonough paid so much, are ya?’ said Carnes. ‘Want me to fill ya in on the programme, motherfucker?’
Penner rolled onto his back. Carnes straddled him, his feet planted on either side of Penner’s thighs, automatic aimed at his chest. Milchuk, whom he could not see, was somewhere behind him.
‘This here’s gonna be a doubleheader, pal,’ said Carnes gloatingly. ‘Man’s payin’ me to whack you out, too. Betcha can’t guess why.’
Penner was afraid, but the fear was dim. Looking up at the muzzle of the gun, feeling the stony shoulder of earth beneath him, seeing the dark clouds wheeling like great slow wings above Carnes, he felt oddly peaceful, even sleepy. It would be all right, he thought, to close his eyes.
‘It’s your fuckin’ old lady,’ said Carnes. ‘Her and McDonough been bumpin’ bellies for a year now. Whaddaya think about that, shithead?’
The news surprised Penner. And hurt him. Yet because of the numb drowsiness that had stolen over him, the hurt was slight, as if a heavy stone had been placed on his chest, making him sink deeper into the cold grass, closer to sleep. Carnes seemed disappointed in his reaction. His eyes darted elsewhere—toward Milchuk, probably—then he looked down again at Penner, a nerve jumping in his cheek.
‘McDonough tells me she can’t get enough of his dick,’ Carnes said. ‘Says her pussy’s like twitchin’ alla time. Says he’s gonna marry the bitch.’
Penner did not believe that McDonough would have confided in Carnes, but the words opened him to visions of Barbara and McDonough in bed, to the bitter comprehension that this was everything she had wanted, a man of wealth and power. He should have anticipated her choice, he should have known that McDonough would never have concocted such a simple scheme as the one he had laid out. McDonough had seen a way to kill two birds with one stone and had orchestrated it beautifully, and Penner’s sadness was a reaction not only to the betrayal, but to how easily he had been taken in.
‘Man, I can’t tell ya how good this feels. I fuckin’ cannot tell ya!’ Carnes let out a lilting, girlish laugh. ‘I been wantin’ to do you since I was fifteen fuckin’ years old. Just goes to show, man. Don’t never give up on your dreams.’ He took a shooter’s grip on the automatic. ‘Wanna gimme some more bullshit ’bout the Sox? C’mon, man! Let’s hear it! Y’ain’t gonna have no chances after this.’
Penner was unable to speak, and Carnes said, ‘What’s your problem, fuckhead! This is your big moment. Talk to me!’ And kicked him a
gain.
The kick dislodged something in Penner, tipped over a little reservoir of loathing that for the moment washed away fear.
‘You’re fucking ridiculous!’ he said. ‘Both you and the fuckin’ Sox!’
Muscles twitched in Carnes’ jaw, that weaselly face jittering with hate. ‘I am gonna kill you a piece at a time,’ he said.
Something black and flat and angular—Milchuk’s briefcase, Penner later realized—smacked into Carnes’ gun hand and knocked it aside. The automatic discharged, the round burrowed into the earth close to Penner’s cheek, spraying him with dirt. Carnes remained straddling him, and Penner was not sure if he had actually thought of kicking Carnes or if the movement of his leg had been a startled reaction to the gunshot; whatever the case, his foot drove hard into Carnes’ balls. He screamed and dropped to his knees, then pitched onto his side, curling up around the pain. When Penner threw a wild punch that glanced off his shoulder, Carnes rolled away and tried to bring his gun to bear; but he was still in too much pain to function. Sucking for air, his hand trembling violently. His eyes were weepy and narrowed to slits. With his Red Sox cap and the tears, he looked like a savage, terrified little boy. Then he puked, heaving up a geyser of coffee and bad fluids.
Penner saw his own gun gleaming in the grass. Luminous with fright, he made a dive for it and came up firing. The first shot half-deafened him, ranging off somewhere into the sky, but the second hammered a red nailhead into Carnes’ jacket just below the collar. The third blew bloody fragments from his lower jaw. There was no need for another.
Penner came unsteadily to his feet. His ears were ringing, his legs shaking. He gazed out over the thickets, the dry, turned leaves rippling with the same agitated motion as the chop on the water. The emptiness of the place assaulted him, and after a second, moved by a perverse need to connect with something, he staggered over to the body. The sight of the jellied eyes and ruined jaw sickened him at first and hurt his heart, but then, thinking of the man, he was furious. Carnes’ Red Sox cap had fallen off, and Penner gave it a vicious kick.
Then he remembered Milchuk. He went quickly along the edge of the clearing, peering into the thickets. It was doubtful Milchuk would contact the police, but he would certainly have a talk with the Vitarellis.
After a moment he spotted him. Surfacing among the camouflage colours of the bushes. Running fast. Hurdling a fallen log. Zig-zagging around some obstacle. Moving like a halfback in the broken field. Penner might have admired his athleticism had it not been so futile—Milchuk was headed not for the highway but toward the spit of land. He must not be able to see it because of the low ground over which he was running, the bushes and a few trees obscuring his view; any moment now, however, he would realize he was trapped, that he would have to make his way along the shore. Because the spit formed the eastern enclosure of a bay, because the bay was cut back behind the clearing, the shore line lay close to where Penner was standing. He should be able to catch up to Milchuk without much difficulty.
He started toward the shore line west of the spit. He ran easily, confidently, with what seemed to him astonishing grace, turning sideways to avoid the clutches of twigs and branches. Not a misstep, not a stumble. He felt charged by this simple physical competence. It was as if the pure necessity of the moment had invoked a corresponding purity in him, eliminating all clumsiness, fear and hesitancy. But on reaching the shore he saw no sign of Milchuk, and once again he became confused.
Where the hell was he?
The sun broke through again, turning the water a steely blue, and Penner, scanning the shore line, had to shade his eyes. Milchuk had outsmarted him, he thought, he had doubled back to the clearing. But then he saw him among the pines that sprouted from the rocky point at the seaward end of the spit. Apparently, he had not seen Penner. He was just standing there, looking back toward the clearing.
Penner was baffled. What could he have in mind? Did he intend to swim for it? If so, because of Penner’s position and the cut-back curve of the shoreline, he would have to swim about a mile in freezing, choppy water to the opposite side of the bay—where there was a motel and some houses—in order to ensure his safety. A mile. That would take…what? At least an hour. Hypothermia would set in before then. And yet the man was obviously in excellent shape. Maybe he could make it.
But if that was the plan, why didn’t he just dive in?
It took a minute’s consideration before Penner understood Milchuk’s tactic. From his vantage, Milchuk could see not only the clearing and the house, but also the dirt road. Perhaps even the highway itself. It would be impossible for Penner to pretend to leave, in order to persuade Milchuk to abandon his position, he would have to drive a considerable distance away, far enough to allow Milchuk to escape along the shore. If he were to try and take Milchuk on the spit, Milchuk would risk the swim; he would likely have decided how closely he would let Penner approach, and once that line was crossed, he would swim for the far side, never permitting his pursuer within pistol range. Very smooth, very economical.
The spiritual vacuum that the shooting had created in Penner was losing its integrity, filling in with vengeful thoughts concerning McDonough and Barbara, fearful thoughts of the Mafia, the police, God’s justice. The idea of lying down somewhere and yielding up his fate to the operations of chance was more than a little inviting. The inside of his head felt hot and agitated, as if his thoughts were whirling like dust, like excited atoms. But this was no time, he told himself, for his usual collapse, his usual fuck-up, and he forced himself to focus on the matter at hand.
He would not be able to kill Milchuk—he admitted to that—and eventually the Vitarellis would learn what had happened. That being the case, he could not risk returning to Southie. Well, that was okay. He had his fifty grand. And he would have Carnes’ share as well. It would be a bloody business, tugging off Carnes’s money belt. Have to look at those eyes again, that marbled cross-section of gore and splintered bone. But he could manage it. A hundred grand would buy a lot of future in the right country. The thing to do now would be to neutralize Milchuk as much as possible so as to secure a chance at freedom. He’d ditch the Caddy in Hyannis, catch a bus into Boston. Fly out of Logan, maybe. Or buy a junker and drive south. Whatever. He could work the details out later. In the meantime, there was a flaw in Milchuk’s plan…or if not a flaw, an inherent softness that he might be able to exploit. He pulled out his handkerchief, wiped off the gun with meticulous care, then wadding the handkerchief in his palm to prevent further contact with his skin, he gripped the gun by the muzzle and set out walking toward the spit. He called to Milchuk as he went, not wanting to startle him into a hasty dive. ‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘Don’t be afraid, man! It’s over! It’s okay!’
Milchuk started down the slope of the point toward the water, he was shrugging off his overcoat.
Penner paused at the landward end of the spit; the opposite end was thirty, maybe forty yards distant.
‘It’s okay, man,’ he yelled. ‘Here! Look!’ He waved the gun back and forth above his head. ‘I’m leaving this for ya! Leaving it right here!’
Milchuk stopped his descent and rested in a crouch halfway down the slope, peering at him.
Penner tossed the gun out onto the spit, surreptitiously pocketed his handkerchief. ‘I’m outta here, okay? No more shooting! No more bullshit!’
Being unarmed made him feel exposed, but he knew that Milchuk would wait until he had retreated more than a pistol shot away before going after the gun. More likely he’d wait until he watched the Caddy pull down the highway. There would be plenty of time for Penner to make it back to the clearing and collect Carnes’ money and his gun.
‘You hear me?’ Penner called.
A beam of sunlight fingered Milchuk among the stones, accentuating his isolation and the furtiveness of his pose. The sight caught at Penner. He could not help but sympathize with the man.
‘If you hear me,’ he called, ‘gimme a sign! Okay?’
Milchuk remained motionless for a bit, then—reluctantly, it seemed—lifted his right arm as if in salute; after a second he let it fall back heavily. The sun withdrew behind the clouds, and he was reduced to a dark primitive form hunkered among the rocks. Behind him, toiling masses of black and silver muscled towards the top of the sky, and the sea, dark as iron, moved in a vast, uneasy swell, as if the entire world had been nudged sideways.
‘Okay, I’m outta here!’ Penner half-turned away, and then, moved by a fleeting morality, a vestigial remnant of innocence, he shouted, ‘Hey! Good luck!’ It amazed him, the sincerity he had felt while saying it.
Penner was more than satisfied with his performance during the phone call to the police. He had exhibited, he thought, just the right mix of paranoia and breathless excitement.
‘The little guy knew the shooter,’ he’d said. ‘I heard him say the bastard’s name, anyway. Millbuck, Mil…something. I don’t know. He might still be around there, man, you hurry.’
Barnacle Bill The Spacer and Other Stories Page 23