by Derek Haas
“I’m worried about you, Columbus. For a loner, you’re starting to ask me to hook up with you quite a bit.”
“Who says I’m a loner?”
“Every file ever written about you.”
“What do the files say about you?”
“If I see any, I’ll let you know.”
“You’re a blank slate. . . . ”
“With this face, I’m sure a few people have noticed me. Right before I shot ’em.”
“You ever think about checking out?”
She looks at me sideways. “Of the game? Nah, I’d just waste away. You?”
“Just thoughts.”
Goddamn, I have no idea why I’m telling her this. It’s like I’m floating a balloon. Maybe if I can practice here with Ruby Grant, I can persuade myself to put this life behind me the next time I see Risina. Jesus, is that it?
I discover a tiny bit of disappointment in Ruby’s eyes.
“Well, I’d stop thinking those thoughts if it were me. You start going down that road, you don’t realize you can’t turn around until you hit a dead end.”
I nod. “Ahhh, I’m just blowing air. This life is all I got.”
She knows I’m snowing her now, but she’s happy to get off the subject.
“Archie really has a file on me?”
“He’s got a file on everyone he ever met. Says you shot a cigarette out of his mouth once in Boston.”
“Well, that’s true.”
She laughs, an effortless, warm sound.
“All right . . . you know so much about me, time for you to ’fess up.”
She spreads her hands out like she’s ready for me to ask anything.
“Tell me how you started pulling trigger for your brother. I’ve never seen that before, a brother–sister, fence and assassin.”
“Ahh, it’s nothing. I worked for him for a while . . . helped him put files together . . . got into places he probably wouldn’t be able to get into. A couple of years at that, and I told him I was itchy to try it.”
“And he just said ‘okay’?”
She looks at me out of the tops of her eyes. “Oh, I get it. I see what you’re doing here. You wanna hear about my first time?”
It’s my turn to shrug.
“Fine, fine. You can be the first to hear it, then, other than Archie who knew the story anyway. Just go get me one of them macaroons they got up in the window there and then settle back, ’cause I got a tale to tell.”
I do. And she does.
“The first time—you never forget the first time, you know what I’m saying? Well, Archie was worried about me, even though I was born for this, truth be told. So he just kept putting it off and putting it off until I told him, ‘Archie, if you don’t hurry up and give me an assignment, I’m liable to just go ahead and make you my first target.’ At this point, I’d been following marks for at least a couple of years, and Archie knew I could handle my business, but he was reluctant to let me out of the starting gates.
“Finally, he relents, looks at me sideways, and hands me this file.”
“A creampuff,” I offer.
Ruby laughs. “Oh, yeah. A cakewalk. An easy-greasy, ‘stroll down Broadway and collect two hundred dollars as you pass Go’ kind of hit. Archie’d just been waiting for a tasty peach like this so I could pop my soda.”
“I don’t blame him.”
“Shit, I don’t either. I didn’t. Not then, at least. So I look over the file, and it’s exactly what you’d expect. Some mid-level guy works in a paper mill, up for a union position and I guess someone didn’t think too favorably of that. This guy, shit, I don’t even remember his name, Black or Brown or something like that, we’ll just call him Brown, well, Brown’s got a routine he’s been following every work day for twenty years. Gets up—”
“Family guy?”
“No, never been married, lives alone, all by his lonesome. . . . ”
It’s my turn to laugh, “Jesus.”
“I know! Anyway, gets up, goes to this little diner slash coffee shop, eats two eggs, two pieces of toast, two strips of bacon . . . ”
“Two cups of coffee.”
“You got it. Then he drives in to work, punches the clock, works his eight, punches out, hits a bar named George’s along with half his co-workers, and heads home. Wash, rinse, repeat.”
“A creampuff.”
“Ain’t that the truth. A guy stuck in a rut. A thousand ways to drop this guy and all of ’em as clean as a whistle, as my mom would say.”
She stops to take a bite of the macaroon, then swallows quickly so she doesn’t lose momentum.
“So here’s the kicker. Archie tag-teams it—”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. Wants me to double up with a long-time shooter he’s got in the stable, name of Tuesday—Tuesday Schmidt or something like that. Ever heard of him?”
I shake my head, and she waves like it doesn’t matter.
“Why would ya? Anyway, this guy’s pulled jobs for Archie for as long as I’ve known him and I’ve read his file and he only works once in a blue moon, but he seems good to go, so whatever. I mean, I’m annoyed, but whatever.
“Archie assures me this bagman is going to just show me the ropes, but I’ll get the kill shot, and I guess that’s what matters, because the truth of it is . . . how will I react? It’s one thing to follow a mark and make notes in a file, another to actually—ah, hell, you know what I’m talking about. Jesus, how long is this story? You sick of it yet?”
“No, believe me, I’m entertained.”
“I’ll try to pick up the pace just the same. So Archie puts us together and I meet Tuesday for the first time, and he’s not at all what I was expecting. Maybe his file needed updating or something, but this guy is a biscuit away from three hundred fifty pounds and he’s gotta be at least sixty years old.”
“Christ.”
“Tell me about it. I start thinking maybe Archie’s doing the favor for this guy, not me. So we ride around together and we stake Brown for at least a week to make sure the file’s up to snuff, though I know it’s going to be. Say what you want about my brother, but Archie can put a file together, that’s for sure.
“Anyway, we sneak into this mark’s house when he’s at work to get the lay of the land, we eat breakfast at the diner, we even get into his mill and scout it out, all the homework, you know. Tuesday’s pretty entertaining, actually, got a million stories he’s spooling out like fairy tales—the moral of this story is ‘don’t leave your safety on,’ the moral of this story is ‘carry an extra clip in your bag’—that type of thing. He’s got me in stitches half the time we’re working this job.
“Finally, seven days of sitting in the car with him and he leans over and asks, ‘how you wanna handle this?’ I don’t even think two seconds and I say, ‘hit him when he gets home after the bar.’ The fat man shrugs and says suits him fine, see ya tomorrow night, and that’s that.
“Of course, I don’t sleep that night, I don’t eat the next day, I’m all geeked up like it’s Christmas morning, you know. Now I got to wait around all day since I’m the one who said let’s hit him at night, so I end up getting in my car and following the mark to make sure he’s still sticking to his pattern—”
“Don’t tell me you jumped the gun.”
“No, not at all. I just wanted to watch this guy and see what’s what. And let me tell you, it was a hell of a feeling, knowing he was gonna die and him not knowing it . . . does that make sense?”
“More than you know.”
“I got a confession to make. I like the way it felt.”
“Yeah. It’s the nature of the beast.”
“You got that right. Anyway, I make sure the target goes to the bar after work like normal, and then I head over to meet Tuesday at the meeting point where we decided to hook up. He’s there when I get there, and I climb in his sedan, take a look at him, and let me tell you, he’s not looking so hot. His face is red and he’s sort of sweating all over.<
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“‘What’s up?’ I say, and he just shrugs and says, ‘nothing.’
“‘You all right?’ I say, and he mutters something like ‘why wouldn’t I be?’ and we take off for Brown’s pad.
“I’m thinking, ‘oh man, tell me this old veteran don’t have cold feet or isn’t shaky or something . . . ’ not on my first pull, you know? ‘Please tell me Archie didn’t tag-team me with a guy who’s suddenly having second thoughts about the shooting game.’
“So I got one eye on Tuesday and one eye on the prize and we wait and wait and eventually Sweet Georgia Brown comes home and I’m out the car door three seconds after he heads inside.
“Tuesday climbs out of the front seat and blocks my way and I’m like, ‘listen, old buck, if you lost your nerve . . .’ and he stares bullets at me and sort of growls like a junkyard dog and says, ‘wait, goddammit. You gotta let the mark settle in and catch him with his head on the pillow. Patience, lady, patience.’”
“I give him my best stink eye but he’s having none of it, and he’s right after all, but I swear something’s off about him. His face is splotchy, bright red in the cheeks, white on the forehead, and he’s dripping sweat, and I don’t know what to think.
“So we wait and wait and wait some more, and I’m listening to Tuesday’s heavy breathing like he’s on some phone sex line for what seems like a week, and finally the clock hits the hour and I nod at him and he shrugs and opens his door.
“We check the street and there ain’t a soul in sight at two in the morning, so we head up to the house. I pull out a pick but check this out, the motherfucking mark doesn’t even lock his front door.”
I chuckle and she leans forward, eyes dancing.
“Tell me about it. This ain’t just a cakewalk, it’s a trip around the whole goddamn dessert bar. So we move into the living room and I can hear Brown snoring in the back so I make a hand signal like I’m gonna go take care of business, and I look over at Tuesday and the man’s face is stark white, all color gone, like I’m looking at Casper the fat fucking ghost. He’s holding his arm like this and I swear I have no idea what the hell’s happening and right then he topples over, all three hundred fifty pounds of him falls sideways like a building coming down, right on a glass coffee table, I shit you not.”
“Heart attack?” I can’t keep the chuckle out of my voice.
“You got it. And this coffee table doesn’t just break, it explodes. I mean it sounds like someone set a bomb off in the room. KA-BOOOM!”
She smacks the table for emphasis.
“Before I know what’s happening, I mean I’m just processing this shit, I turn my head to see Brown, buck naked, standing in the doorway to his bedroom, holding a sawed-off shotgun.
“My heart’s beating like a drum and I remember the thought going through my head . . . I’m wondering what we must look like, a dead fat guy collapsed on his coffee table and me looking like I do, holding a gun in my hand.
“I don’t know if he thinks we’re burglars or what, but I guess he figures it out pretty damn fast, because he points both barrels at me and pulls the trigger.”
I raise my eyebrows and Ruby grins, anticipating my surprise.
“Click. That’s all he gets. You think I didn’t notice that gun under his bed when I staked his house? I know I’m not supposed to touch anything but I wasn’t going to take any chances. So I took the shells out of the barrels and left it right where it was.
“Good thing.”
“Damn straight.”
“And Brown?”
“I knocked the surprise right off his face.”
“And Tuesday?”
“Never saw Wednesday again.”
I give her the slow clap and she pantomimes a curtsy as we both laugh.
“I’m impressed. You tell a good story.”
“Now you know more about me than anyone in the game.”
“I know I better check to make sure my gun’s loaded if you’re coming for me.”
“You’re right about that.” She stands. “I’ll be right back,” and with that, she heads to the sign marked “WC.”
Like her brother, Ruby Grant has grown on me quickly. We are opposites—we approach this job from radically different directions—and yet maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Maybe I can learn from her as much as she learns from me. Like getting inside a mark’s head, maybe getting inside Ruby’s head will show me a different angle, a different way to navigate this business.
She drops two fresh macaroons on the table as she takes her seat. “Pistachio and vanilla,” she says. “You gotta try both.”
“No, thanks.”
“More for me,” she shrugs as she bites into the green one.
Swallowing, she starts in with “All right, then. Enough about my humble beginnings. Let’s focus on the matter at hand. What’s going on and where do I fit in?”
“I’m going to take out the man who put the hit on me.”
“He dies, no one to pay out the contract, the hit goes away?”
“That’s the idea.”
“So where is he?”
“Holed up in one of six buildings on the Rue de Maur. Heavily defended. He’s known the neighborhood and the buildings his entire life. Oh, and I don’t know what he looks like . . . I’m pretty sure he had his face changed.”
She waits, her expression unreadable. Then she manages, “Shiiiit.” Just like her brother.
“I know.”
“What d ’you need me for? Sounds like the same type of creampuff as my Mr. Brown.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You got blueprints of the six buildings?”
I shake my head.
“Any of ’em?”
I shake it again.
“You know how many guys he’s got?”
I just keep shaking.
“Fuck you, Columbus. I mean seriously, fuck you.”
“I’m not going to go in there. . . . ”
“No shit you’re not.”
“I’m going to bring him out to me.”
She nods now, regaining interest. “Okay, okay. Now we’re talking. How do you plan to draw him out?”
She leans back and waits for me to paint the picture. I give her the basics while she finishes her macaroons. The table we occupy in the back corner has allowed us both to speak freely, as opposed to the States where we might have had to worry about hovering waiters. Here, the staff usually gives you all the room you need.
After I finish, she leans forward. “Okay. Okay. I dig where this is going.”
“Good. You’re in, then?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“I talked to Archie today. He wants to be your fence when this is over. That’s why I’ve been hanging around. I’m supposed to seal the deal.”
Well, there it is. I knew it was coming; I just didn’t know when.
“I’m not sure there’s going to be much more for me when this is over.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ve put in quite a few years now, and I’m still young. I lied when I said it was just a thought. I’ve been thinking about it more in the last month than in the previous thirteen years. There might be a way out for me.”
“How long you been giving yourself that speech?”
“Not too long.”
“No, I didn’t think so.” She shifts so she can look me straight in the eyes. “Listen, if you think there’s an escape hatch for you, I’ll tell Archie not to stand in your way.”
I nod, and she leans forward again. “But if you can’t get out—if you try it and things go sour—then he’s gonna want you in the fold.”
I sit back and rub my hands on the top of my head and think of Risina and then of a dropped silver handle on a stopped silver wagon and think of giving everything to her by giving everything away. And then my eyes fall on Ruby sitting in front of me, in this world, my world, and something in me keeps seeking her out, again, a few times during this hunt, a game in which I’m mor
e hunted than hunter, and my instincts are out in front of my intellect. Do I want Archibald Grant to be my fence? Have I been angling for that without even realizing it? And what does that say about my plans to give this life up? Maybe I’m deceiving myself.
“Okay.”
She doesn’t ask for confirmation, doesn’t want to prolong my internal conflict. She’s the kind of woman who knows what an “okay” means without having to dig it out and analyze it.
We settle the bill, head to the front of the café to make plans for our next rendezvous and maybe we’re being cavalier and maybe we’re too comfortable and maybe there were signs, the way there were signs in that coffee shop on the day all this began.
I look up to see Roger Mallery riding down the street atop that goddamn bicycle and his eyes find us, and the look of confusion on his face lasts for what seems an eternity as his mind works out the mechanics . . . that I told him I was working for his boss Coulfret, that I needed his help on an assassination, that our mark was the very much alive girl standing next to me, that the whole thing was a lie . . . I can see it all come together for him, one plus one can only equal fucking two, and he must spot my eyes narrowing, hardening, because he swallows, lowers his chin, and starts pumping his pedals desperately, like a sprinter. His bike responds by hurtling down the street as though it has been fired out of a cannon.
Ruby recognizes Mallery just moments behind me and I think she says something to me, but my legs are already moving, and I dart across the street and barrel as fast as I can down the sidewalk.
As large as Mallery is, he sure knows how to work that fucking bike, and his lead grows as he cranes his neck practically under his right armpit to make sure I’m not gaining on him.
Three workers are unloading boxes out of a black delivery truck with the engine idling, and if luck wants to spin around on a dime then I’m sure as hell going to take advantage of it. I’m in the driver’s seat and throwing the truck into gear and ignoring the shouts of the angry workers and if there are any police loitering around for the next couple of blocks then I’m just going to have to deal with them later because I cannot let this man warn Coulfret.
He looks back for me on the sidewalk and then spots me behind the wheel of the truck and I discover a moment of panic in his eyes. Often, panic in your enemy can provoke a mistake, a stutter, an opening to his defeat. But it can also lead to a surge of adrenaline, a dip into the reservoir of energy he has buried inside him.