Shit!
“No, I swear I was just—”
“Shhhhhh. You’ve got a sawed off. Isn’t that against parole?”
He’d just finished his jolt in the joint. Last thing he wanted was go back inside. But that would be the do-gooder thing to do: drop a dime on him.
“You ain’t gonna turn me in, are you?”
“No, Perry. Nothing like that.”
“Really?” Thank God. “Hey, Jack, that’s really—”
He started to turn again but the muzzle jabbed his cheek. Hard.
“The shotgun’s for me, isn’t it.”
That soft voice, so calm, so cold . . . giving him the creeps.
“No way. Look, you can take it.”
“Already have it. But seems we have a problem, Perry. You’ve got a hard-on for me and now you know where people I care about live. That can’t be.”
Can’t be? He didn’t like the sound of that. But wait . . .
He forced a laugh. “You tryin t’scare me, Jack?”
“Nope.”
“Yeah, y’are. But it won’t work. Y’know why? Because you see yourself as a do-gooder. Better’n me. Helpin old ladies. The Equalizer. Batman without no cape.”
“Wrong, Perry. The daughter of one of your marks hired me to get you.”
“Hired? Bullshit.” He steeled his guts and grinned as he rose to face him. “You’re a do-gooder and you ain’t gonna do nothin.”
Perry saw a blur of motion and then pain exploded on the left side of his head as Jack’s pistol smashed against his skull. His knees went Jell-O. A second blow left him face first in the dirt, the world tilting.
Then he felt himself lifted, carried toward the barrier overhanging the highway.
On, no! Oh-no-oh-no-oh-no!
“But . . .” His lips wouldn’t move right. “But you’re a do-gooder.”
“Wrong, Perry. I’m more into doing the right thing. And when I see myself and my two ladies threatened, the right thing to do is eliminate the threat.”
Perry felt himself hoisted atop the railing. When a break in the traffic came, Jack pushed him over.
All the way down his mind screamed that this couldn’t be happening. This self-styled, bullshit do-gooder had . . .
THE SOUND OF BLUNDER
“We’re dead! We’re freakin’ dead!”
Mick Brady, known by the criminal underground of Arkham, Pennsylvania, as “Mick the Mick,” threw the remains of his shrimp egg foo yung across the cellar, then held a shaking fist in front of Willie Corrigan’s face. Willie recoiled like a dog accustomed to being kicked.
“I’m sorry, Mick!” Willie said through a mouthful of General Tso’s chicken.
Mick the Mick cocked his fist and realized that smacking Willie wasn’t going to help their situation. He smacked him anyway, a punch to the gut that made the larger man double over and grunt like a pig.
“Jesus, Mick! You hit me in my hernia! You know I got a bulge there!”
Mick the Mick grabbed a shock of Willie’s greasy brown hair and jerked back his head so they were staring eye to eye.
“What do you think Nate the Nose is going to do to us when he finds out we lost his shit? We’re not going to be eating takeout from Lo’s Garden, Willie. We’re both going to be eating San Francisco Hot Dogs.”
Willie’s eyes got wide. Apparently the idea of having his dick cut off, boiled, and fed to him on a bun with a side of fries was several times worse than a whack to the hernia.
“We’ll . . . we’ll tell him the truth.” He shoved a handful of fried noodles into his mouth and crunched out, “Maybe he’ll understand.”
“You want to tell the biggest mobster in the state that your Nana used a key of uncut Colombian to make a pound cake?”
“It was an accident,” Willie whined. “She thought it was flour. Hey, is that a spider on the wall? Spiders give me the creeps, Mick. Why do they need eight legs? Other bugs only got six.”
Mick the Mick realized that hitting Willie again wouldn’t help anything. He hit him anyway, a slap across his face that echoed off the concrete floor and walls of Willie’s basement.
“Jesus, Mick! You hit me in my bad tooth! You know I got a cavity there! Hey, did you eat all the duck sauce? Is duck sauce made from duck, Mick? It don’t taste like duck.”
Mick the Mick was considering where he would belt his friend next, even though it wasn’t doing either of them any good, when he heard the basement door open.
“You boys playing nice down there?”
“Yes, Nana,” Willie called up the stairs. He nudged Mick the Mick and whispered, “Tell Nana yes.’ ”
Mick the Mick rolled his eyes, but managed to say, “Yes, Nana.”
“Would you like some pound cake? It didn’t turn out very well for some reason, but Bruno seems to like it.”
Bruno was Willie’s dog, an elderly beagle with hip dysplasia. He tore down the basement stairs, ran eighteen quick laps around Mick the Mick and Willie, and then barreled, at full speed, face-first into the wall, knocking himself out. Mick the Mick watched as the dog’s tiny chest rose and fell with the speed of a weed whacker.
“No thanks, Nana,” Mick the Mick said.
“It’s on the counter, if you want any. Good night, boys.”
“Night, Nana,” they answered in unison.
Mick the Mick wondered how the hell they could get out of this mess. Maybe there was some way to separate the coke from the cake, using chemicals and stuff. But they wouldn’t be able to do it themselves. That meant telling Nate the Nose, which meant San Francisco Hot Dogs. In his twenty-four years since birth, Mick the Mick had grown very attached to his penis. He’d miss it something awful.
“We could sell the cake,” Willie said.
“You think someone is going to pay sixty thousand bucks for a pound cake?”
“I dunno. Maybe. Some people ain’t so bright.”
Truer words were never spoken, Mick the Mick thought.
“No junkie is going to snort baked goods, Willie. Ain’t gonna happen.”
“So what should we do? I—hey, did you hear if the Phillies won? Phillies got more legs than a spider. And you know what? They catch flies, too! That’s a joke, Mick.”
“Shaddup. I need to think.”
“Okay. I don’t think I like the Phillies anymore. Are they called Phillies because they’re all named Phil? I think—hey, we got fortune cookies. Lemme see my fortune.”
He cracked open a cookie and pulled out a slip of paper.
“Look, it says, ‘You are very wise.’ I always think it’s funny to add ‘in bed’ after a fortune. That means mine is, ‘You are very wise in bed! Ain’t that funny, Mick?”
“A freakin’ riot, Willie. Now let me think.”
Willie tossed Mick the Mick a cookie. “Open yours, Mick! Open yours!”
“How about instead I open your skull with a ball-peen hammer?”
“Do I got a fortune in my skull, Mick?” Mick the Mick cast his eyes about the basement for some sort of bludgeon, but the basement was unfortunately bludgeon-free. So he decided to open the damn cookie. Anything to shut Willie up. “What’s it say, Mick?”
“ ‘You will change the world.’ Yeah, right.”
“No!” Willie shouted. “ ‘You will change the world in bed’!”
Mick the Mick couldn’t think of an appropriate response, so he rabbit-punched Willie. Even though it didn’t solve anything.
“Jesus, Mick! You hit my kidney! You know I got a stone there!”
Mick the Mick turned away, rubbing his temples, willing an idea to come.
“That one really hurt, Mick.” Mick the Mick shushed him. “I mean it. I’m gonna be pissing red for a week.”
“Quiet, Willie. Lemme think.”
“It looks like cherry Kool-Aid. And it burns, Mick. Burns like fire.”
Mick the Mick snapped his fingers. Fire. “That’s it, Willie. Fire. Your house is insured, right?”
“I guess so. H
ey, do you think there’s any of yesterday’s pizza left? I like pepperoni. That’s a fun word to say. ‘Pepperoni.’ It rhymes with ‘lonely.’ You think pepperoni gets lonely, Mick?”
To help Willie focus, Mick the Mick kicked him in his bum leg, even though it really didn’t help him focus much.
“Jesus, Mick! You know I got the gout!”
“Pay attention, Willie. We burn down the house, collect the insurance, and pay off Nate the Nose.” Willie rubbed his shin, wincing. “But where’s Nana supposed to live, Mick?”
“I hear the Miskatonic Nursing Home is a lot nicer, now that they arrested the guy who was making all the old people wear dog collars.”
“I can’t put Nana in a nursing home, Mick!”
“Would you rather be munching on your vein sausage? Nate the Nose makes you eat the whole thing, or else you also get served a side of meatballs.”
Willie folded his arms. “I won’t do it. And I won’t let you do it.”
“Woof!”
Bruno the beagle sprang to his feet, ran sixteen laps around the men, then tore up the stairs.
“Bruno!” they heard Nana chide. “Get off the counter! You’ve had enough pound cake!”
Mick the Mick put his face in his hands, very close to tears. The last time he cried was ten years ago, when Nate the Nose ordered him to break his mother’s thumbs because she was late with a loan payment. When he tried, Mom had stabbed Mick with a meat thermometer. That hurt, but not as much as a wienerectomy would.
“Maybe we can leave town,” Willie said, putting a hand on Mick the Mick’s shoulder.
That left Willie’s kidney exposed. Mick the Mick took advantage, even though it didn’t help their situation.
Willie fell to his knees. Bruno the beagle flew down the stairs, straddled Willie’s calf, and began to hump so fast his little doggie hips were a blur.
Mick the Mick began searching the basement for something flammable. As it often happened in life, arson was really the only way out. He found a can of paint thinner on a dusty metal shelf and worked the top with his thumbnail.
“Bruno, no! Mick, no!”
Mick couldn’t get it open. He tried his teeth.
“You can’t burn my house down, Mick! All my stuff is here! Like my comics! We used to collect comics when we were kids, Mick! Don’t you remember?”
Willie reached for a box, dug out a torn copy of Amazing Spider-Man #146, and traced his finger up and down the Scorpion’s tail in a way that made Mick the Mick uncomfortable. So he reached out, slapped at Willie’s bad tooth. Willie dropped the comic and curled up fetal, and Bruno the beagle abandoned the calf for the loftier possibilities of Willie’s head.
Mick managed to pop the top on the can and he began to sprinkle mineral spirits on some cartons labeled “Precious Photos & Memories.”
Willie moaned something unintelligible through closed lips—he was probably afraid to open his mouth until he disengaged Bruno the beagle. “Mmphp-muummph-mooeoemmum!”
“We don’t have a choice, Willie. The only way out of this is fire. Beautiful, cleansing fire. If there’s money left over, we’ll bribe the orderlies so Nana doesn’t get abused. At least not as much as the others.”
“Mick!” Willie cried. It came out “Mibb!” because Bruno the beagle had taken advantage. Willie gagged, shoving the dog away. Bruno the beagle ran around Willie seven times, then flew up the stairs.
“Bruno!” they heard Nana chide. “Naughty dog! Not when we have company over!”
Willie hacked and spit, then sat up. “A heist, Mick. We could do a heist.”
“No way,” Mick the Mick said. “Remember what happened to Jimmy the Spleen? Tried to knock over a WaMu in Pittsburgh. Cops shot his ass off. His whole ass. You want one of them creepy poop bags hanging on your belt?
Freaks me out.”
Willie wiped a sleeve across his tongue. “Not a bank, Mick. The Arkham Museum.”
“The museum?”
“They got all kinds of expensive old stuff. And it ain’t guarded at night. I bet we could break in there, get away with all sorts of pricey antiques. I think they got like a T. rex skull. That could be worth a million bucks. If I had a million bucks, I’d buy some scuba gear, so I could go deep diving on shipwrecks and try to find some treasure so I could be rich.”
“You think Tommy the Fence is going to buy a T. rex skull? How we even gonna get it out of there, Willie? You gonna put it in your pocket?”
“They got other stuff, too, Mick. Maybe gold and gems and stamps.”
“I got a stamp for you.”
“Jesus, Mick! My toe! You know I got that infected ingrown!”
Mick the Mick was ready to offer seconds, but he stopped midstomp.
“You ever been to the museum, Willie?”
“ ‘Course not. You?”
“Nah.”
But maybe it wasn’t a totally suck-awful idea.
“What about the alarms?”
“We can get past those, no problem. Hey, you think I need a haircut? If I look up, I can see my bangs.”
Willie did just that. Mick the Mick stared at the cardboard boxes, soaked with paint thinner. He wanted to light them up, watch them burn. But insurance took forever. There were investigations, forms to fill out, waiting periods.
But if they went to the museum and pinched something small and expensive, chances are they could turn it around in a day or two. The faster they could pay off Nate the Nose, the safer Little Mick and the Twins.
“Okay, Willie. We’ll give it a try. But if it don’t work, we torch Nana’s house. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
Mick the Mick extended his hand. Willie reached for it, leaving his hernia bulge unprotected. Now that they had a plan, it served absolutely no purpose to hit Willie again.
He hit him anyway.
“I don’t like it in here, Mick,” Willie said as they entered the great central hall of the Arkham, Pennsylvania, Museum of Natural History and Baseball Cards.
Mick the Mick gave him a look, which was pretty useless since Willie couldn’t see his face and he couldn’t see Willie’s. The only things they could see were whatever lay at the end of their flashlight beams.
Getting in had been a walk. Literally. The front doors were unlocked. And no alarm. Really weird. Unless the museum had stopped locking up because nobody ever came here. Mick the Mick had lived in Arkham all his life and never met anyone who’d ever come here except on a class trip. Made a kind of sense then not to bother with locks. Nobody came during the day when the lights were on, so why would anyone want to come when the lights were out? Which made Mick the Mick a little nervous about finding anything valuable.
“It’s just a bunch of rooms filled with loads of old crap.”
Willie’s voice shook. “Old stuff scares me. Especially this old stuff.”
“Why?”
“ ‘Cause it’s old and—hey, can we stop at Burger Pile on the way home?”
“Focus, Willie. You gotta focus.”
“I like picking off the sesame seeds and making them fight wars.”
Mick the Mick took a swing at him and missed in the dark.
Suddenly the lights went on. They were caught. Mick the Mick feared prison almost as much as he feared Nate the Nose. He was small for his size, and unfortunately blessed with perfectly shaped buttocks. The cons would trade him around like cigarettes.
Mick the Mick ducked into a crouch, hands above his head. He saw Willie standing by a big arched doorway with his hand on a light switch.
“There,” Willie said, grinning. “That’s better.”
Mick wanted to punch his hernia again, but he was too far away.
“Put those out!”
Willie stepped away from the wall toward one of the displays. “Hey, look at this.”
Mick the Mick realized the damage had been done. Sooner or later someone would come to investigate. Okay, maybe not, but they couldn’t risk it. They’d have to move fast.
&
nbsp; He looked up and saw a banner proclaiming the name of the exhibit: elder gods and lost races of south:
CENTRAL PENNSYLVANIA!
“What’s this?” Willie said, leaning over a display case. Suddenly a deep voice boomed: “WELCOME!” Willie cried, “Whoa!” and Mick the Mick jumped—high enough so that if he’d been holding a basketball he could have made his first dunk.
Soon as he recovered, he did a thorough three-sixty, but saw no one else but Willie.
“What you see before you,” the voice continued, “is a rare artifact that once belonged to an ancient lost race that dwelled in the Arkham area during prehistoric times. This, like every other ancient artifact in this room, was excavated from a site near the Arkham landfill.”
After recovering from another near dunk, plus a tiny bit of pee-pee, Mick noticed a speaker attached to the underside of the case.
Aha. A recording triggered by a motion detector. But the sound was a little garbled, reminding him of the voice of the aliens in an old black-and-white movie he and Willie had watched on TV last week. The voice always began, “People of Earth . . .” but he couldn’t remember the name of the film.
“We know little about this ancient lost race but, after careful examination by the eminent archeologists and anthropologists here at the Arkham, Pennsylvania, Museum of Natural History and Baseball Cards, they arrived at an irrefutable conclusion.”
“Hey,” Willie said, grinning. “Sounds like the alien voice from Earth Versus the Flying Saucers.”
“The ancient artifact before you once belonged to an ancient shaman.”
“What’s a shaman, Mick?”
Mick the Mick remembered seeing something about that on TV once. “I think he’s a kind of a witch doctor. But forget about—”
“A shaman, for those of you who don’t know, is something of a tribal wise man, what the less sophisticated among you might call a ‘witch doctor.’ ”
“Witch doctor? Cooool.”
Mick the Mick stepped over to see what the voice was talking about. Under the glass he saw a three-foot metal staff with a small globe at each end.
“The eminent archeologists and anthropologists here at the Arkham, Pennsylvania, Museum of Natural History and Baseball Cards have further determined that the object is none other than an ancient shamans scepter of power.”
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