Killshot

by Elmore Leonard

  “Call your buddy Nelson and ask him.”

  She’d get the shotgun out and put it by the door. It startled her, all of a sudden remembering the two guys.

  “Carmen?”

  “I will. I have to call Mom first.”

  “You gonna be home when I get there?”

  “I’ll see how she is.”

  “Get her permission.”

  “If I can leave her, I will. Okay? That’s the best I can do.”

  “You get pissed off at Mommy and lay into me.”

  “I’m tired,” Carmen said.

  “Call the State Police, that detective, whatever his name is. Tell him you’re home.”

  “I will. Hurry, okay?”

  “I’ll see you about six, six-thirty. We’ll probably need a few things, huh, some beer?”

  “It’s weird,” Carmen said, looking around the kitchen. She saw the oven door open a few inches.

  “What is?”

  “I don’t know—the feeling. I walked in, it wasn’t like coming back to a house that’s been closed up.”

  “It’s only been a week but seems longer, that’s all. Call Nelson.”

  “I will.”

  “And that cop.”

  “I’ll see you,” Carmen said. Hesitated a moment and said, “Wayne? I’ll be here.” She pushed the button to disconnect, dialed her mother’s number, waited and was surprised to hear:

  “Hello?” The tone almost pleasant.

  “Mom? Did you know it was me?”

  “I prayed it was. I’ve been worried sick.”

  “I’m home. How are you?”

  “Well, I’m walking now. The pain is still something awful, but at least I’m on my feet. When’re you coming over?”

  “You sound much better.”

  “Well, I’m not.”

  “I could stop by later, for a while anyway. Wayne’ll be home this evening and I want to have his dinner ready.”

  “I haven’t seen you in so long . . .”

  “Do you need anything at the store?”

  “I’ll have to think, I’m so used to looking out for myself,” her mom said. “Well, I could use a bottle of Clairol Loving Care. The light ash blonde, number seventy-one.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Oh—I got the report from Annoyance Call. There was a whole bunch of calls from where you were, three-one-four. There was one from Algonac, your house, and three from public phones. One Marine City and two Port Huron that must’ve been the hang-ups. That’s what they do, call from a pay phone so they don’t get traced, they’re slick articles.”

  “I didn’t know you were having trouble.”

  “I told you the day you had your phone put in, and you called? I was gonna see if a trap would catch him.”

  “You must’ve had it done before we left.”

  “It was right after, I know, because I was worried sick I hadn’t heard from you.”

  Carmen said, “And one of the calls was from this house?”

  “It’s your number on the list.”

  “But we weren’t here, Mom.”

  Her mother said, “Well, somebody was.” She said, “How’s your weather down there?”

  Thirty miles away. Carmen wanted to hang up and walk out of the house—the weather was all right, it was weather, about 50 out, overcast, quite windy—walk all the way around the outside of the house and look at it good—her mom saying it was 52 degrees in Port Huron—look in the windows and find out for sure, was this her house? It looked like it, everything was in the right place, but it didn’t feel like her house, someone had been here and touched things. Everything wasn’t in the right place, the phone book and note pad she kept in a drawer were on the counter. Someone had been here and left a smell, the kitchen smelled, someone had been cooking, used the oven she never left open like that, plugged in the refrigerator humming away, what else? Looking around now—her mom asking what time she was coming—Carmen telling her she didn’t know offhand, she had to shop (think of something), she had to get a tire fixed, and heard a sound from somewhere in the house, hard, clear, a metal-hitting-metal sound. Carmen told herself it was a radiator clanging, hot air banging in a pipe, and told her mom she’d be there around noon, bye, I missed you too, Mom, yeah, okay, see you in a little while, bye. And hung up. She moved to the range, stooped to push the oven door open and looked inside. Three wedges of cold pizza and a few crusts lay on a cookie sheet. She could smell them. Carmen straightened, closing the oven, turned to the refrigerator and jumped, sucking in her breath.

  Richie said, “How’s Mom doing?”

  He stood in the doorway to the dining room wearing an ironworker’s jacket, Wayne’s old one, and sunglasses, holding a shotgun across his arm.

  Now the other one appeared, coming into the kitchen past Richie Nix, also with a shotgun but holding it at his side, pointed down. Armand Degas, wearing the same dark suit he’d worn that day at the real estate office. He said to Carmen, “It looks like we gonna be together for a while, ‘ey? Till six or six-thirty?”

  Richie Nix said, “Bird? Here, hold this,” and handed him his shotgun.

  He came toward her and Carmen tried to look him in the eye, tried hard, but lowered and turned her head as his hand came up and she thought he was going to slap her across the face. “You got nice hair,” Richie said, touching it, stroking it. She was looking down at his cowboy boots toe to toe with her white sneakers. “Has body, you don’t have to use a lot of sticky spray on it.” He moved against her, his hands going to her shoulders. “Mmmmm, smells nice, too. I can see you believe in personal hygiene, you keep yourself clean. I like your sweater-and-shirt outfit. You look like a little schoolgirl.” His hands came down to take hold of her hips. “Scoot over, I want to get something here.”

  Carmen looked up. She saw the diamond in his earlobe and saw Armand Degas watching them. Richie had the oven door open. He brought out a wedge of cold pizza and took a bite as he moved to the window over the sink.

  “How come you had to drive the pickup?”

  “It was there,” Carmen said. Her voice sounded dry.

  “Whatever that means,” Richie said, looking at her now. “It don’t matter. Where’s the keys?” When she hesitated Richie stepped over to her purse lying on the counter. “In here?”

  Armand said, “Put the truck in the garage and close the door. Let’s get that done.”

  Carmen watched Richie look up and stare at Armand before he said, “That’s what I’m gonna do, Bird. Why do you think I want the keys?” He brought them out of the purse and walked around the counter that separated the kitchen work area from the door.

  “I thought you might want to keep talking,” Armand said, “till somebody drives by, sees the truck.”

  Richie stopped and took a bite of pizza. He said, “Hey, Bird?” in a mild tone of voice. “Fuck you.”

  It didn’t seem to bother Armand. Carmen watched him. All he did was shrug, reach over and lay Richie’s shotgun on the counter against the wall.

  She moved to the window over the sink, not wanting to be alone with Armand looking at her. She had to make up her mind how to think about this, how to accept it—her mouth dry, trying to breathe, telling herself to take a deep breath and let it out slowly—how to act, passive, or let herself go, think of Wayne walking in and let the tears come, plead with them, please . . . Or think of a way . . . First get the keys back from Richie, with the key to Wayne’s closet, the Remington inside. She thought of it without knowing if it was possible or if she’d have the nerve, it was hard to picture, if she did somehow get to the gun—would it be loaded?—and held it on them . . . then what? Through the window she saw Richie inside the pickup, starting it, both hands free, what was left of the pizza slice sticking out of his mouth. He might leave the keys in the ignition. She watched the pickup creep ahead and turn toward the garage, out of view.

  Behind her, Armand said, “You want to fix us some breakfast? We brought food, it’s in the icebox.”<
br />
  Carmen turned and they were as close as the day he tried to come up the porch steps, his face raised with the hunting cap hiding his eyes, the day she could have shot him and wished to God, now, she had.

  She said, “What do you want?”

  “There some waffles if you have any syrup.”

  “I don’t mean to eat. What do you want?”

  “We’re waiting for your husband.”

  Making it sound like a visit.

  “And when he gets here . . . ?”

  She watched him shrug and then look up. A hammering sound was coming from the garage, Richie—it would have to be Richie—pounding on metal. The sound stopped.

  “I know why you’re here,” Carmen said. “Why can’t you say it?”

  “Well, if you know that . . .” He gestured with his hands, let them fall and said, “Don’t talk so much, all right?”

  “Or what, you’ll shoot me?”

  “I’ll get tired hearing you and put a gag on your mouth, tie you up. You want that? I don’t care.”

  Richie came in holding Wayne’s sleever bar. “Look it, Bird. What the guy used on us. I knew he kept it in that tool box. It’s just what I been looking for.”

  Armand didn’t say anything.

  Richie dropped the keys on the counter going by and Carmen didn’t hesitate. She stepped over from the sink, picked up the keys, ready to shove them into her jeans, and stopped. Richie was at Wayne’s closet. She watched him wedge the pry end of the bar into the seam between the door and the frame, Richie saying, “I been wondering why you kept this locked.” He put his weight behind the bar, pushing on it. “I never even noticed it till this morning.” He grunted, pushed hard and the door popped open.

  Carmen stared at the closet. She could see Richie inside now with the light on. Armand, close to her, said, “You gonna fix us breakfast?”

  “Fishing poles and a bunch of shit for hunting,” Richie said, his voice raised. “I thought there’d be a gun. Hey, Bird, didn’t you?”

  Carmen didn’t move, staring at the closet, Richie inside looking around. Close to her Armand said, “There was a shotgun.” She didn’t look at him. “That one you had, ‘ey? Where’s that one?”

  “In Cape Girardeau, Missouri,” Carmen said.

  “That’s where you were? It sounds French, no? But I never heard of it. So your husband has the gun, ‘ey?”

  She was thinking that last week or the week before or whenever it was, she had brought the Remington inside and Wayne had come back from the store where the girl was killed and picked it up. . . . It wasn’t next to the door when they left and Wayne didn’t bring it with them, she was sure of that. He had put it somewhere . . . she thought in his closet.

  “I remember that gun, with the slug barrel on it,” Armand said. “I remember I asked you, you shoot people with that thing? Oh, you wanted to shoot me that time. I watched you, I could see it. Didn’t you?”

  Carmen stared at Richie in the closet, Richie holding something in his hand, looking at it closely.

  “But you couldn’t do it,” Armand said in his quiet voice close to her. “Maybe your husband’s different, I don’t know. But you don’t shoot people, do you?”

  Carmen didn’t answer, watching Richie coming out of the closet with a plastic bottle in his hand, holding it up.

  “Hey, Bird? What’s Hot Doe Buck Lure?”

  Armand inspected the entire house again in daylight. Upstairs in the bedroom he pulled the phone cord out of the wall, in case the ironworker’s wife sneaked up here. She might do it, but could never jump out of one of these windows without hurting herself. She would have to go through the two panes of glass, the window and the storm sash, once he locked them, using all the strength in his fingers to twist each catch in place. There were storm windows downstairs too. The living room was on the wrong side of the house to watch from, but the dining room was good. Armand liked the dining room, the big oak table, the window in front and the row of windows along the side, where the ironworker would drive in. There was still plenty of time. It was only eleven-thirty. He’d have one drink, a swallow from the bottle, that’s all.

  He was getting used to the sounds around this place. It had been quiet all night except for Richie, but now the wind was gusting, rattling the windows, and those big cargo planes from the Selfridge Air National Guard base were flying over low, with a roaring noise like they were coming into the house. It would shut Richie up for a few moments. Armand felt himself coming to the end of Richie, the irritation of this guy, this punk, reaching its peak, and by the end of this day that would be enough of him. Richie hadn’t mentioned Donna yet but he would, Armand was pretty sure.

  Earlier, they had eaten in the kitchen, the waffles you put in a toaster. The ironworker’s wife had syrup. She made coffee and stood by the window while they sat at the counter, Richie talking, trying to impress her, the punk talking with his mouth full. He asked her if she had ever met a bank robber before. She said no. He asked her if she liked Missouri. She shrugged her shoulders. He said did she know Jesse James was from there? He said he was going to Missouri and rob one of the banks Jesse James robbed, that would be cool. He showed her all the flat frozen-food boxes in the icebox, not in the freezer, thawing on a shelf, so you could cook them quicker, and told her he ate chicken every day. You know why? She said no. He said because Wade Boggs ate chicken every day of his life. He said, Bird, you know who Wade Boggs is? Armand had heard the name, they spoke of Wade Boggs in the Silver Dollar in Toronto, cursing him; but that was all he knew, the name, so he didn’t answer. Richie asked the ironworker’s wife, calling her Carmen, if she knew and she nodded. Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. Richie said, Tell the Bird who he is. Carmen said, He plays third base for the Boston Red Sox. Richie said, And belts the shit right out of a baseball. He told Carmen he had wanted to be a major-league ballplayer, but his deprived youth as an orphan had fucked up his chances, so he became a bank robber instead. Chewing gum by this time, the punk would blow a bubble and pop it, showing off.

  Next thing, Richie told Carmen to take her clothes off, he had an idea. She said no, shaking her head at him, determined not to do it. He said, Okay, not all your clothes. You got on undies, don’t you? You can leave on your brassiere if you wear one and your panties. You wear a brassiere? She turned away as he reached for her and Armand watched Richie rub his hand over her back, feeling it, and then his whole face smiled and he said, Hey, she don’t wear one, Bird. He told her, Okay, strip down to your panties if you got any on and you’ll be our little topless bunny, serve us drinks and dinner. How’s that sound, Bird? Armand didn’t say anything. The way this punk kept talking had him at the edge; still, he wouldn’t mind seeing the ironworker’s wife without her clothes on. She held her arms tight to her body when Richie tried to pull the sweater off. When she kneed Richie in the crotch, hard, and he doubled over with the pain, Armand thought Richie might pull his gun. He could hit her if he wanted, but shoot her, no. Her mother might phone worried sick, wondering where she was. Or the ironworker might call from the road and think something happened if she didn’t answer and then maybe he’d call the police too. But Richie didn’t pull his gun. He tried to slap her with one hand, holding his balls with the other, and she got away from him and went to the other side of the counter and picked up a knife. Richie thought that was funny. What he did, he opened the bottle of Hot Doe Buck Lure and threw deer piss on her clothes, doused her with it good and the smell was so bad it could make you sick. Richie made her go into the bathroom at the end of the hall, telling her to take off those clothes and wash herself. He closed the door and they stood in the foyer by the stairs waiting. The door opened. She came out wearing something that looked like an undershirt and white panties very low on her hips. Jesus Christ. Richie said, Hey, I want you topless. But looked at her some more and said it was a cute outfit, he liked it. Armand didn’t say it but agreed with Richie, the ironworker’s wife looked pretty nice. She stood up straight, not foldin
g her arms or trying to cover herself, and looked right back at them. Though didn’t seem too happy about it, no.

  They were in the dining room now, at the table Carmen and Wayne had bought at a farm auction.

  Richie sat at the end toward the doorway to the kitchen. He had Wayne’s jacket off, hooked to the back of his chair. The nickel-plated revolver she remembered lay on the table next to his low-cal gourmet chicken.

  Carmen sat with the windows behind her, hands folded on the table edge in front of her; she felt less exposed here. The tank top smelled and she’d breathe through her mouth whenever she got a strong whiff of doe urine and would remember the night Wayne brought it home. She wasn’t shaking the way she did at first, chills running through her. Now she could sit without holding herself rigid, not exactly relaxed, but at least aware. The hardest part was trying not to think of Wayne coming home or Wayne in tender moments or Matthew; she didn’t dare think of Matthew, especially as a little boy. If she did an urge to cry would come over her and she was afraid if she started she wouldn’t be able to stop.

  What she did to hang on and not panic or come apart was think of Wayne in a different way, Wayne here, close to her, so that she wasn’t alone. Wayne in her mind but real, because she knew him so well. She asks him if he’s scared and he says, for Christ sake of course he’s scared, you’d have to have brain damage not to be scared of these assholes. Don’t let their chitchat, that casual bullshit, fool you, these guys are fucking maniacs. Stay low, don’t make a lot of noise, don’t piss them off, and if they give you any more than thirty seconds’ leeway take it, run like hell for a door. Don’t try a window, you’ll never get the goddamn storm open. She says, Thanks a lot. Wayne shrugs. What else can I tell you? You run if you see the chance. You get your hands on a gun, use it. None of this put-your-hands-up-while-I-call-the-cops, use it. She asked him where he’d put the Remington. He wouldn’t tell her. She clenched her jaw. Wayne, goddamn it . . . He still wouldn’t tell her.