Conspiracies

by F. Paul Wilson

  "Hey, yo, c'mon," said Knitcap, playing his advocate's role to the hilt. "Pay the guy three!"

  Jack said, "How about two-fifty and the earring?"

  "Yeah!" said Nocap. "That's fair!"

  "Awright," said the shaker with another of his put-upon shrugs, making a show of reluctantly bowing to pressure.

  Truth was, Jack could have been asking for five hundred and it wouldn't have mattered—no way, no how was the sucker going to win—but he didn't want to push it too far.

  "But I need to know if you've got two-fifty," Jack said.

  "I got it," the shaker said, holding up the stack in his left hand.

  Jack shook his head. "If my money's on the table, so's yours. And the earring with it."

  Another shrug, but wary this time. "Awright. If that's the way you wants to play, what else is there for me to say?"

  Jack laid his money down. The shaker counted out two-fifty in tens and twenties next to Jack's bills, then dropped the earring on top.

  "If everything's okay with you, now I got my work to do."

  "Just one more thing," Jack said. He turned to Santo and his wife. "I want you two on either side of me, watching, okay?"

  He centered himself on the makeshift table, then positioned Santo on his right and the wife on his left.

  "All right," he told the couple. "Don't let that ball out of your sight."

  "Now are we ready?" the shaker said.

  Jack nodded. "Okay. Do it."

  Jack felt his muscles coil as the shaker started his yammer and went into the skedaddle. Finally he stopped, pushed the caps forward.

  "The ball is hidden in its groove. Time for you to make your move."

  Jack took a deep, tension-easing breath, then squared himself in front of the table. He pointed at the caps with both index fingers, moving them in circles as if they were fleshy divining rods.

  "I choose ... I choose ... "

  He moved his hands closer to the caps.

  " ... I choose ... "

  Closer ... quick glances at the positions of the sticks ...

  Then he struck.

  " ... the middle!"

  With one lightning move he overturned the two end caps, shouted, "I win!" when no ball showed, then snatched up the two piles of bills and the earring.

  "What the fuck?" said Nocap.

  Jack was already moving as he shoved the earring into Santo's hand.

  "Bye."

  "Hey!" yelled the shaker.

  "That's okay," Jack said, backpedaling away down the path. "I don't need to see the ball. I trust you."

  He turned and broke into a jog. Behind him he heard Santo laugh. He glanced back and saw his wife hugging him. He also saw Knitcap and one of the slides starting after him.

  He quickened his pace. He knew he wasn't going to lose them. Fifth Avenue was less than a hundred yards away, but even if he got there ahead of them, that wouldn't stop them. They'd jump him on the sidewalk and take back the money. Or try to. Jack didn't want to deal with them in public; witnesses could describe him, a camera-toting tourist might even snap a photo. Or worst case—a cop might come to his rescue.

  No, he'd have to deal with both of them here. He needed a spot where they'd think they had him all to themselves. And up ahead he saw just the place.

  He hopped over a low fence onto the grass and half ran, half slid down a steep slope to a lower walkway that ran into a short tunnel beneath the path he'd been on. He stopped midway in the brick-lined underpass and ducked into one of the shallow arched recesses that lined the walls. He pulled his Semmerling LM-4 from its ankle holster and stuck it in the side pocket of his jeans for easier access.

  He was hoping he wouldn't have to use it—that simply showing it would be enough. Trouble with the world's smallest .45 automatic was its size. People saw it and thought it was a toy. But it packed a wallop, especially loaded as it was the MagSafe Defenders.

  The frangible loads gave Jack the option of inflicting a disabling wound—say, to the thigh—or an almost guaranteed kill with a shot anywhere into the chest. And he didn't have to worry about the bullet coming out the other side and hitting an innocent passerby—frangibles did devastating damage to their target, but stayed put.

  He was making a show of counting his money when they found him.

  "Awright, mothahfuckah," Knitcap said. He held a six-inch blade point down by his right thigh.

  Jack slid his hand toward the Semmerling pocket but stopped it halfway there. He'd been expecting knives; he hadn't expected the pearl-handled .38 revolver in the young slide's hand.

  "Yeah," said the slide, pointing the pistol at Jack's head. "Yeah!"

  For one frozen, heart-stopping, bladder-squeezing second as the barrel lined up with his face, Jack thought he was going to die. He saw murder in the slide's face. The kid was all of seventeen, but his cold dark eyes said he hadn't been a real kid for a long time.

  But Jack calmed somewhat when he saw how the kid was holding it. Maybe he'd been watching too many gangsta videos, or bad shoot-'em-up flicks. Whatever the reason, the slide was holding his pistol sideways ... beyond sideways—he'd rotated it a good 150 degrees so that the heel of the grip was higher than the barrel. And he had his ring and pinky fingers sticking up in the air like he was having afternoon tea.

  When he was ready to pull the trigger he'd need to get a firmer grip or risk having the pistol jump out of his hand.

  So Jack figured he was safe for the moment—the kid was stylin' now, showing off for the older stick—but as soon as those waving fingers wrapped themselves around the grip ...

  What now? Look scared, then attack? The one thing he could not afford to do was the expected.

  "You lunched?" the kid said. "That what wrong with you? That what make you think you get away with this shit?"

  Jack's mind raced as his eyes fixed on the snub-nose revolver—looked like a custom job, nickel plated with curlicue engravings all over it. A pretty piece, despite the fact that its muzzle was pointed at Jack's face.

  "Hey-hey-hey," Jack said in a frantic voice that wasn't completely put on. He thrust his hands out in front of him, money and all, as if to hold them off. "No need for violence!"

  "Yeah?" said Knitcap through his teeth. He stepped closer and Jack raised his hands over his head. "You think I like chasin' you 'bama ass around?"

  "I won fair and square!"

  "That ain't the way we play." He stuck the point of his knife against Jack's throat. "Maybe we just cut your thumbs off so this never be a problem again."

  "Or maybe I just one-eighty-seven you," the slide said, pushing the pistol closer to Jack's face. "Bust one in you face so you don't even think about trying this shit again!"

  The revolver was so close now that Jack could see the tips of the bullets in its cylinder. His stomach gave a twist when he recognized the little posts in the center of the jacketed hollow points: Hydra-Shoks. He had a nightmare flash of what would happen if he took one of those in the face as threatened—he watched the rim of the hollow nose peel back from that central post into a wide-winged lead butterfly, saw it flutter though his brain, bouncing off the inner walls of his skull, pureeing the contents.

  Think-think-think! Where's the hammer? Down. Good. If and when the kid fired, the trigger would need a double-action pull ... just a teeny bit more pressure to get off the shot. Wasn't much, but every little bit helped.

  A little closer ... Jack had to bring that pistol just a little closer ...

  Very aware of the blade point just to the left of his voice box, he nodded carefully at the sideways pistol. "Uh, I assume you know that's not the recommended way to hold a pistol."

  "What?" the slide said, his eyes widening. "What?"

  "I said—"

  "I know what you said. And now I know you fuckin' lunched! I hold a gun in you face and you tell me I'm holding it wrong?" He glanced at Knitcap. "Ay yo trip—he miss his medication today or somethin'?"

  "No," Jack said. "It's just that it's
not a secure grip."

  The slide stepped closer, rage lighting in his eyes as he yanked back the hammer. But he didn't change his grip—he wasn't going to let anyone tell him how to hold his gun. Stylin' to the end.

  "Don't you be tellin' me—"

  "Here!" Jack cried in a high, terrified voice, releasing the bills he held over his head and scattering them into the air. "Take the money!"

  In the instant their attention shifted to the money, Jack batted Knitcap's knife away with his left hand while whipping his right hand down at the slide's pistol. He caught the stubby barrel and the trigger guard, ramming the pistol back and down as he twisted. The weapon tore free and Jack switched it to his left hand.

  And pointed it—right side up—at Knitcap just in time to abort a backhand slash at Jack's face with the knife.

  "Uh-uh."

  Knitcap froze. The slide looked down at his empty hand, then back at his pistol in Jack's, his expression a study in shock and confusion.

  "Oh, fuck!" said Knitcap and turned to run.

  "Don't want to shoot you in the back," Jack said, flipping the pistol to his right hand, "but I will." He touched a wet, stinging spot on his throat ... His fingers came away bloody. "Especially after you cut me. Dammit!"

  Knitcap mustered a sick sounding, "Shit!" as he dropped his knife. He looked at Jack's throat. "It's only a scratch, man."

  Jack stepped out of the recess to where he could better cover both men.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw a jogger approach the underpass, realize what was going down, make a quick U-turn, and sprint away.

  Knitcap glanced angrily at the slide. "How the fuck you let that happen?"

  The slide said nothing.

  "You fuckin' b-g!" Knitcap went on. "You had the gun in his face and let it go?"

  "As I was saying," Jack told the former gun owner, "that's a stupid way to hold a pistol. Not secure at all." He gestured to the ground. "Okay, guys. Have a seat."

  The slide finally spoke. "Fuck you!"

  Jack lowered the pistol and shot him in the foot. The report echoed like a cannon blast in the tunnel as the slide cried out and fell to the ground, moaning, rolling, and clutching his abruptly four-toed foot.

  Knitcap was down in a sitting position before the sound of the shot had completely faded away. He held his hands in the air.

  "I'm down! I'm sittin'!"

  Jack knew the appearance of the jogger had set a timer in motion, and the sound of the shot would only accelerate that. The underpass would funnel the report right toward Fifth Avenue. He had to figure someone in that direction had heard it, and was probably dialing 911 right now. Times like this, Jack hated cell phones.

  Had to move fast.

  "All right. Both of you—empty your pockets. I want to see everything you've got, even the lint. Put it all in Mr. Smith and Wesson's Yankee hat."

  Slowly, grudgingly, Knitcap complied, but the slide wouldn't let go of his bloody foot.

  "I can't, man!" he moaned. "My foot!"

  "Weren't you the tough guy gonna bust one in my face a minute ago?" Jack said. "You can get along fine with nine toes, but let's see how far you'll get with one knee, because that's where I bust the next one if you don't start emptying pockets now!"

  The slide got to it. Another knife appeared, extra rounds for the pistol, some change, and about a hundred in small bills between them.

  "Don't forget the rings and necklaces," Jack said.

  "Aw, not my dog, man," said Knitcap.

  "You're obviously a betting man," Jack said, pointing the pistol at his neck. "How much you wanna bet I can shoot that big fat chain holding the dog without hitting your neck?"

  With a sullen look he tugged off the rings and tossed them into the cap. Then with a look of utter misery, he grabbed the gold bulldog, broke the chain, and dropped it into the cap with the rest. He punched the back of the slide's shoulder—hard.

  "Told you to let me handle it, but no, you gotta bring out the fuckin' chrome."

  The slide just clutched his bloody sneaker and said nothing.

  Jack bent, retrieved the cash he'd dropped, then picked up the hat.

  "Nice doing business with you guys," he said, then trotted off, leaving them sitting in the shadows.

  He didn't expect them to come after him again. After all, they were unarmed now and one of them wasn't walking too well. And at the moment they were probably lots more interested in getting out of the park before the cops came, then coming up with a good story for the shaker as to why they were returning bloody footed and empty handed.

  Jack shoved the take into his pockets, then pressed the cap against his bleeding throat as he slowed to an energetic walk. Not a lot of blood there, but enough to attract attention.

  He felt a little shaky from the adrenaline aftereffects. Too close back there. He'd been lucky. It could have come out a lot worse—the slide could have simply shot him on sight and Jack would have been done.

  Why had he given in to a spur-of-the-moment gig? It went against all his rules. These things had to be planned. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  He passed the statue of Balto the sled dog, then angled past the zoo. By the time he'd climbed the steps to Fifth at Sixty-fourth Street, he'd calculated that his little haul probably would add up to over a thousand after he hocked the gun, knives, and jewelry. The Little Leaguers ought to be able to buy lots of uniforms and equipment with that.

  He doubted they'd want the bloodstained Yankee cap, though.

  2

  "A couple of days and then he'll be on his way back to Florida," Gia said. "You survived this food ... you can survive your father."

  She glanced up at him with her azure eyes, then returned to flipping through the Little Orphan Annie book. Jack had picked up the Fantagraphics collection of all the strips from 1935 along with the Daddy Warbucks lamp. He'd bought it for Vicky but Gia immediately had taken possession of it.

  Blond and beautiful, she sat across from him at a tiny table far from the big street-front windows. The remains of three lunches lay scattered and mostly eaten before them. Vicky, Gia's daughter, had had a hamburger; Gia, complaining that all the salads had meat, had finally settled for some vegetarian chili. Jack had ordered the Harley Hog Special—a mass of pulled pork stuffed into a roll.

  "What is pulled pork, anyway?" Gia said, looking askance at the scraps left on his plate.

  "It's the other white meat."

  "Cooking a pig sounds nasty enough, but why pull it?"

  "I think they cook it on the bone, then grab handfuls and—"

  "Stop right there. Please. Oh, and look," she said, folding her paper napkin and reaching across the table, "your Band-Aid is oozing a little."

  He let her dab at his throat.

  "That must have been some shaving cut. What were you using—a machete?"

  "Just careless."

  Jack was still unsettled and annoyed at himself for getting hurt. He'd picked up some Band-Aids at a drugstore on Seventh Avenue, and cleaned the wound in the bathroom of a McDonald's. It wasn't deep, but it had needed two Band-Aids to cover it.

  He hadn't actually said it was a shaving cut—he hated lying to Gia—but he hadn't corrected her when she arrived at that conclusion. She tended to overreact when he got hurt, going on about how easily it could have been so much worse, how he could have been killed. Sometimes that led to an argument.

  A shaving cut was good.

  "There!" she said, balling up the napkin. "All cleaned up."

  "I had a rakoshi dream last night," he told her.

  They usually avoided talking about the horrific episode last summer that had ended in the deaths of Vicky's two aunts and damn near Vicky herself. But he needed to share this, and Gia was one of the four other people who knew about the creatures.

  She looked up at him. "Did you? I'm sorry. I think I've finally stopped having them. But every once in a while Vicky wakes up with the horrors. Was I in it?"

  "No."

  "Goo
d." She shuddered. "I don't ever want to see one of those things again, not even in someone else's dream."

  "Don't worry. You won't. That I can promise you."

  Gia smiled and went back to flipping through the Annie book; Jack looked around for Vicky. The pig-tailed eight-year-old reason they were in this particular place was over by the window, gyrating on a coin-fueled motorcycle ride. A delicate warmth suffused Jack as he watched her pretend she was racing it down some imaginary road. Vicky was the closest he might ever come to having a daughter, and he loved her like his own. Eight years old and no secrets to keep from her mom, just the moment and learning something new every day. That was the life.

  "Think she'll grow up to be a biker chick?"

  "That's always been my dream for her," Gia said without looking up from the book.

  Jack had promised Vicky a lunch out during her grammar school's spring vacation week, and she'd chosen the Harley Davidson Cafe. Vicky liked all the wheels and chrome; Jack loved the fact that only tourists came here, reducing to near zip his chances of running into someone he knew. Gia had come along as chaperone, to make sure the two of them didn't get into trouble. None of them was here for the food, which was mostly suitable for staving off hunger until the next meal. But as far as Jack was concerned, having the two ladies in his life along transformed any place into Cirque 2000.

  "These are really good," Gia said, spending about two seconds per page on the Little Orphan Annie book.

  "You can't be reading that fast," Jack said.

  "No, I mean the art."

  "The art? They're drawings."

  "Yes, but what he does with just black ink in those little white boxes." She was nodding admiringly. "His composition is superb." She closed the book and looked at its cover. "Who is this guy?"

  "Name's Harold Gray. He created her."

  "Really? I know Annie from the play and the movie, but why haven't I ever heard of him, or seen his strips before?"

  "Because your Iowa paper probably didn't carry Annie when you were growing up. She'd become passé by the late sixties, and hardly worth reading after Gray died."

  "How many strips are there?"

  "Well, let's see ... Annie started in the twenties ... "