by Thom August
“So I limp toward my dead friend. Get his gun. Point the gun at Ms. Jones here. What you gonna do? Shoot me, the other leg? You have to kill me. Eventually. That’s the thing, see?”
He was right, but I didn’t say so.
“Two,” he said. “What you gonna tell them, the cops? Got an explanation for all this, this…?” He waved his arm around the room. I couldn’t look at all the dead bodies. My eyes blurred them into geometric shapes with slashes of bright color. There was a metallic taste in the air.
“Nobody left to back you up. Just you and the drummer girl,” he continued. “Ridlin’ll live, but he’s out of it. Won’t remember a thing. What kind of story you gonna come up with? How long you think you can both stick to it? Want to spend the next two years talking to the cops? Lawyers? CNN? The Trib? The Sun-Times, for Christ’s sake?”
Words were forming in my mind but refused to come out of my mouth. Akiko wasn’t doing any better. She kept glancing over to where Laura was laying on the floor.
“Think,” he said. “I’m dead already. They can’t let me suffer, it’s cruel and unusual. Half-decent lawyer? Be in the prison hospital inside a hour. Get better stuff for the pain in there. Morphine drip. Little button to push. Retribution? Justice? Forget about it.”
He paused, looked at both of us.
“No one who knows you were here is alive. How many things you touch? The coffeepot? A cup? The door handle? The railing, getting on and off the thing there, the carousel? The back of one of the booths maybe? The handle of the urinal in the can? And you,” he said, pointing to Akiko. “Same thing with you. Maybe less. The smooth floor next to the Nephew, there? The booth you were at with Laura? Damp rag. Ten, fifteen minutes max. Leave all the bodies where they are. Don’t step in the blood. Wipe it all down. Take the cleaning supplies with you. Dump them, some rest area, the interstate. Take your car. Go anywhere you want, start over. Snow’ll cover up every tire-track. You got the money there, you want it,” he said, nodding toward the bag, “Buy yourself a good piano, a doctor for the hand. Buy the drummer girl her own dojo. Set yourselves up. Who’s to say you don’t deserve it, what you been through? Don’t have to look over your shoulder. Everybody is dead. It’s a new day.”
I could see his mind working, each point as sharp as a shark’s tooth, all lined up in a row.
“But you,” I mumbled. “It would be suicide. Why would you want to—”
“It’s way past what I want,” he said. “Time is up.” His hand was at his abdomen; he was making an intense effort to speak. “Best this way. Best for everybody. And you know it.”
He had thought it all out. I was paralyzed by logic.
“Wait,” he said. “One more thing. Gotta do this right. Use the Riddler’s gun,” he said. “You do it with that gun. Make him the goddamn hero. He blasted Joe Zep, he got me. Here, I’ll walk closer to make it look right. You do it with that gun, wipe off your gun, put it in my hand. I gotta have a gun, doesn’t matter which one. This one registered to you?”
“No,” I said. “Someone left it in my cab…I just kept it…”
“Perfect,” he said. “A lost gun, a stolen gun. Perfect, see?”
He stopped. A crease of pain split his face. He took a few deep breaths.
“The hotshot assassin, holding a puny twenty-two, gets shot by an old alky cop. Ridlin? He survives. Don’t remember a thing. He’s a big hero. Cops’ll love it.”
I had followed him over to where Ridlin lay on the ground. I felt Akiko’s eyes on me. He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket, grabbed a corner and flicked it open, reached out, took my gun from me, wiped it with the handkerchief, tucked it under his armpit. He leaned down and picked up the gun in Ridlin’s hand with the handkerchief. For a second he was holding both of the guns. I felt a sudden rush of panic, but in the time it took to skip a heartbeat he put Ridlin’s gun in my hand, the handkerchief still wrapped around it.
“Wait,” he said. “Don’t move. Stand still.” I froze, my finger tightening on the trigger. He aimed my little gun over my shoulder, fired it twice at the wall. I jumped an inch off the floor. He brought the barrel up to his nose and sniffed it. I flashed to Proust and the madeleine. I thought I saw a sweet nostalgia. I thought I saw a sad disgust. I don’t know what I saw.
I looked at Akiko. She was standing still. I don’t know what I saw in her face either, because I didn’t look for anything there; she was carrying enough already.
I looked at the gun in my hand. I turned it over, seeing one side, and then the other. I waited. I don’t know what I was waiting for.
“You know it’s the way to go, right?”
I nodded my head. It was all I could manage.
“Problem is, you don’t how you know it. And you’re thinking about that.”
I turned to him, startled. “How did you—?”
“You’re the one with all the schooling,” he said. “You’re the one with the big brain. You’ll figure it out. Later. Now, you have to step up. Be free of this. Do what’s gotta be done.”
The gun in my hand rose up in front of my face. My hand was trembling.
“By the way,” he said. “You’re not a bad piano player, for what it’s worth. Just work on that right hand.”
CHAPTER 65
Vince Amatucci
Leaving the Nickelodeon
Tuesday, January 28
We held each other for a long long time. And then we did as he said and cleaned what we could, making sure not to leave any sign of ourselves behind. The bar, the booths, the bandstand, the bathrooms—we went over them all with a soft wet rag, every crack and crevice. I washed the coffeepot, the coffee machine, the cups and spoons. I wiped the cream pot and the sugar bowl and the places where they’d been. Akiko did the booths and the bathrooms and the doorknobs and the bar. Then we tackled the bandstand, the piano, the railings, the poles, even the thermostat I had turned up at the start and now turned back down.
There was nothing there but death. A smell lay heavy in the air, metallic, tangy, fecund; we fought our way through it and stayed at it until it was done. At the end she wandered over to where Laura lay on the floor. She knelt down, reached out her rubber-gloved hand, then pulled it back. Her elbows were on her knees, her hands were laced together, her head was bowed. I turned away and busied myself behind the bar and let her have as much privacy as I could.
Two minutes later she stood and wiped her eyes. We rounded up the cleaning supplies, turned out all the lights, and got ready to close the door. Akiko was holding the briefcase full of cash, and I had the cleaning bucket full of rags.
And the phone rang.
I looked at my watch. It was three forty-five. It rang again. Akiko looked at me, her face all twisted up. I put down the bucket, grabbed a rag, and walked behind the bar.
“Vince,” she said.
I looked at the phone, let it ring one more time, then picked it up with the rag.
“Hello?” I ventured.
There was a pause.
“Well, I’m glad to be hearing it’s you,” said the Fat Man.
“What the fuck?” I almost shouted. “You—”
“Yo, yo, don’t you be saying nothin—,” he said. “You got me?”
“Yeah.” I got him immediately.
“Good. Good. Now, uhh…who’s there?”
I looked at Akiko. “My, uh, friend, from the North Side, she’s still here,” I said.
“Hunh…”
“And I’m still here,” I said.
“You sound, I don’t know, man, you sound—”
“Blasé? Numb? Totally fucking zombified? Something like that?” I said.
There was a pause.
“Hunh,” he said. “Alright, now. Call me later, whenever…But get outta there, now. You hear me? Go on already. Go.” And the phone clicked off.
I placed it back in its cradle, gave the whole contraption another wipe, and walked back over to Akiko. She was still looking at Laura, and I put my hand gently o
n her shoulder. Her eyes turned up and questioned me, and I just said, “The Fat Man, I don’t know how, I don’t know why…Let’s just…” I bent down, picked up the bucket and walked toward the door. We walked through it, and I set the bucket down to grab the handle with my rag.
I stopped myself, and turned to her.
“Wait,” I said. “My tuning fork.”
Still holding the rag, I opened the door, walked inside, flipped on the lights, and walked over to the bandstand. I stepped onto the carousel and walked to the metal box on the floor near the piano. I reached down with the rag in my hand and pulled the tuning fork free, stuffing it into my pants pocket. I gave the switches and the box a careful wipe, then walked back to the door.
Jack’s funny-looking case was sitting there and it stopped me. Still holding the rag, I opened the zipper of the bottom compartment. There, inside a black velvet drawstring bag, was his cornet. I slid it out of the valise. The mouthpiece wasn’t attached. I flipped the case open with my shoe and looked inside, and found it, in a small rubber pouch next to some valve oil. I slipped both into my coat pocket, slid the cornet under my arm, and, holding the rag with some care, re-zippered the bag, turned out the lights, stepped out, closed the door, grabbed the bucket, and walked down the stairs. Akiko waited there, clutching the briefcase, her hair frosted white.
The snow was close to six inches deep, and it was wet and heavy. We picked our way over to my car one step at a time, our knees rising to our waists. I unlocked it, slid the cornet onto the dash, put the bucket behind the front seat, started her up, cranked up the heat, then got back out and brushed off as much snow as I could. I got back in the car, buckled up, and flipped the wipers to MAX and the rear defroster to ON. She had the briefcase in her lap, clutching it to her. I picked the cornet up off the dash and looked for someplace to put it.
She looked at me. “What’s that, Vince?” she asked.
“Landreau’s horn,” I said.
She gave me a puzzled look.
“I don’t know,” I said, “sentimental value? Or, maybe, if my left hand doesn’t heal, I might need something to play that doesn’t require all ten fingers. This only needs three.”
I gently tucked it back behind the stick shift. I looked over at Akiko.
She nodded, snapped her seat belt on, and set the briefcase on the floor between her feet. She squeezed my hand, and held it. I squeezed back, and we sat there for a moment. Finally, I gently disengaged my hand, engaged the clutch and started to roll forward.
It was virgin snow, and the going was slow. I kept it in second all the way out. “No sudden moves,” I thought. “Just keep it moving, nice and steady, straight ahead, like skiing.” As we broke free of the back streets, the way was more passable, and it took the roar of the revving engine to remind me to shift up to third.
A half a mile ahead we followed the signs and shushed into the left-turn lane for 94 South. The light turned red. I eased us to a stop, put the blinker on, and looked at her. It was understood that we couldn’t go back. I could call the Fat Man later and have him send us our stuff. Of course, I didn’t own much stuff, and she had even less.
The light turned green, and we mushed through the heavy snow onto the expressway. There were ruts in two of the three lanes, so I stayed right, eased into the grooves, and locked into the flow. The traffic seemed to be all tractor trailers. They were doing no more than forty, and that was just fine with me.
After twenty quiet minutes we saw the signs for Route 80. I hit the emergency flashers and pulled onto the shoulder, as far from the traffic as I could get. I put the car in neutral and turned toward her. I reached out and traced the line of her jaw with my fingertips. She was looking straight ahead.
“So, what do you think?” I asked.
“I think we’re going to make a very interesting couple,” she said.
I wasn’t sure what to say. Finally, I asked, “So, you understand that I’m a male, right?” I asked. “With all the usual attachments and such.”
And she leaned right in and kissed me. It started with a gossamer brush of her lips on mine, then became something softer and sweeter, then turned languid and luscious and tender and moist. And then she reached down and squeezed my cock.
Except it wasn’t my cock. It was my tuning fork. She pulled back, frowned.
“See how hard you got me, with just one kiss,” I said. “Stainless fucking steel.” I pulled the fork from my pocket, reached out, and tapped it on the steering wheel. An A-440 rang out.
She giggled, then turned quiet.
“Here’s the thing,” she said. “You’re a very bright and perceptive man, Vince, I mean, but, like, sometimes you have no fucking clue…”
“But I thought—”
“No, wait,” she said, holding up a hand. “Don’t think.”
I paused, looked at her. Her dark eyes were locked onto me tight.
“I don’t know, Vince. You’ve always had this little-sister thing with me, trying to look out for me, you know? Trying to bring me along? But I wasn’t looking at you like a big brother. So who knows? After tonight, I’m, I’m not sure what to believe about myself, you know?…But I’ve always believed in you.”
I held her hand up, kissed it. “You don’t really look like my sister,” I said.
I kissed her again, and we held each other, and the boundaries shifted a notch.
Until the sudden blare of a truck horn Dopplering by our window brought us both to a full, upright, and locked position.
We shook ourselves.
“OK,” I said. “Which way?”
We sat in silence for a moment. I looked at the signs up ahead—east or west.
“Vince,” she said. “I say we go where neither of us has ever been, you know, start new.”
“West?” I asked.
She nodded.
“L.A. or San Francisco?” I asked. “Do you have a preference?”
“Do you?” she asked.
“Well, Frisco always looks pretty in the pictures.”
“You’re not supposed to call it ‘Frisco.’ San Fran, or the whole name.”
“Really? Where’d you hear that?”
She paused, looked away.
“Friend of mine, from out there,” she said.
“Really? A friend from out there?” I said.
She looked at me with a glint in her eye. “Lot of bitchin’ lesbians out there, in San Francisco,” she said. “Hot bi chicks, too, I hear.”
I looked over at her. She was grinning.
“Like me, I guess,” she said. She was looking half-away from me. Her mouth was a straight line, but her eyes were smiling.
Half an hour ago we’re cleaning an abattoir with our bare hands, I thought, and now we’re cracking jokes. Jesus.
I put the car back in gear, and checked the traffic coming up behind us. It was all trucks, in herds of three or four. I got rolling and found a gap in the flow, and spun my wheels pulling into the same set of ruts as before. As soon as we were back on 94 South, I flipped the directional to the right, and looped onto the exit for 80 headed west. She had her hand on my right leg as we slopped around the turn and up to the toll booths.
We had a long way to go, and a lot to put behind us. My brain raced back through it all—I thought about why the two of us had been spared and what it all meant. I had no idea, and I had every idea, and no way to tell the merest speculation from the cold hard truth.
We slogged along heading west at thirty miles an hour for what felt like forever. At seven the sky started to lighten behind us but the snow continued to fall. At eight the snow tapered off but the wind bent the trees toward the ground. And at nine we came over a rise and rounded a bend and the sky was blue before us and the road was clear beneath our wheels.
A big green sign loomed ahead and slowly came into focus—DAVENPORT, IOWA, 10 MILES.
How appropriate, I thought.
I turned to Akiko. She nodded. We would stop there, for a day, maybe two. Lick our
wounds. Count the money. Make some plans.
My fingers reached down and touched the cornet, briefly. Her hand settled softly on top.
This one’s for you, Jack.
Or Franco.
Whoever you were.
COPYRIGHT PAGE
A LEISURE BOOK®
January 2008
Published by
Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
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Copyright © 2008 by Thom August
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