by Andrew Post
Dad, I’m home.
We’re going to Grandma’s.
And then that voicemail. Frank listened to it again. Rhino, whoever the fuck they were, had tipped Robbie off about the Petroskys. Why did Rhino want to intervene? What did Frank mean to them, to anybody, besides the cops right now? And on top of that, how did they know to send Robbie over in the first place? Frank had told no one about the Petroskys planning to come by except for Ted.
Okay. So he followed that possibility a second. Maybe – maybe – Ted had sent it up the food-chain; maybe someone in the red market saw value in what Frank did for a living. Maybe Frank, since giving those funeral-home girls Vasily, was being unwittingly recruited as a source for bodies in the future. Maybe they wanted to help him so, if caught, he wouldn’t squeal about what he knew about Rhino and what Rhino did. Or maybe Rhino wanted to keep Frank from harm’s way so Rhino, himself, could kill Frank to make sure all loose ends were tied up. But if he wanted Frank dead, why not just let the Petroskys kill him?
Maybe those funeral-home girls were Rhino, together, and just put on a good show to seem like they had no idea what they were doing. Maybe Ted was Rhino. Maybe that dumbass Slug was Rhino. Fuck, maybe Frank’s ex-wife or the mailman or the goddamn Pope or the Loch Ness Monster was Rhino.
It didn’t matter. They had saved his life, whoever they were. And for the moment, he just savored that small nugget of luck he’d been tossed.
Frank set his own phone aside and took out Robbie’s and sat for a while edging off the hard little dots of dried blood from the screen with his thumbnail, considering what he should do. He was lying low right now, afraid to get on the highway. He had to get rid of his car, he knew that much. He had to have someone hide him. But who owed him anything? It wasn’t like he could call Rhino for another favor – it seemed he deigned to intervene when he wanted. Plus, would that be putting himself deeper in his pocket than he apparently already was?
Robbie’s phone’s wallpaper was of an overweight woman smiling, sitting in a gondola with what could only be Venice in the background.
If Robbie had been married, no mention of a wife had ever come up in the brief conversations Frank had had with him when Robbie dragged in some underling of his with a bullet or knife in him. Just small talk. Sports scores, the weather, where’s good to eat, shit like that. Frank sat looking at the picture of Robbie’s fat wife, wondering if she’d heard the news yet. And, for that matter, if it’d circled back to Robbie’s niece, Simone. Simone, who without her putting a bullet in Vasily, none of this bullshit would’ve ever happened.
Maybe it was laying blame. Maybe it was like it was at the clinic, when a fuck-up happens, your mind, wanting to save your career and social standing, rushes to fill in holes, packing whoever was available into the hole you’d made, sacrificed. But Frank didn’t think, though he’d done such things in the past, that this case was like that. Replaying it all over in his head, these past two shitty days, he decided, no, this was really all her fault.
If she’d just gone, like he had asked, and not shot Vasily in the head for no real concrete reason, none of this would’ve happened.
Frank remembered trying to tell Robbie it was all her fault, back at his house, but felt like he was trying to find a scapegoat. He hadn’t been. No. He’d been telling the truth. It was her fault. All her fault.
Frank found her name in Robbie’s phone – the little profile picture was of her, with longer hair, fuller in the face, sitting at a kitchen counter in somebody’s house, chin on her palm, elbow on the counter, smiling that absent-eyed smile. He could hear her voice as he stared at her picture. That fucking accent that felt half-pretend. That loose hold on the English language she had, the little slips of racism, the ignorant fucking girl who was born with a silver spoon in her mouth from her fucking mobster family and didn’t give a shit about anyone but herself. She was a murderer and it was a shame she hadn’t been in that room when the bullets had started to fly.
He called her. She was going to be Frank’s square peg for this hole and he’d make sure she fit it.
“Who is this? Who’s got Robbie’s phone?” Simone said, voice wracked. Many female voices were howling and crying in the background. Simone sniffled. “Who the fuck is this, huh? You gonna tell me I’m next or some shit? Well, speak up, you fucking asshole – because when I find you these will be your last fucking words.”
“It’s Frank, Simone.”
“Frank? You’re all over the news. What happened? Where are you?”
“Do you really think I’m just going to tell you that?”
“Were you there? Did you see it happen? They killed my uncle and my cousins, Frank. My Joey was there. He’s dead. They fucking killed him, Frank. Every man in my family’s dead.”
“I know they are. I was there.”
“How did you get away?”
“I need you to help me.”
“Why should I help you? You just left them all to die. Half my fucking family died in that house, you piece of shit, and you’re gonna ask me for a goddamn favor?”
“There was nothing I could do. And I think you owe me.”
“I owe you? I don’t owe you shit. Fucking nerve of you to say such a thing to me, my family’s been torn apart, we’re all over crying our guts out and you’re gonna—”
“But you do owe me. You have no one to blame, Simone. No one. If you hadn’t shot Vasily none of this would’ve happened. Bryce would’ve picked him up and everybody could’ve gone their separate ways but you just had to shoot him, didn’t you?”
“Why are you saying all this to me? Don’t you know I’m in fucking pieces right now; I lost half my fucking family tonight, Frank. Don’t you have no heart?”
“I need you to come pick me up. I need a room. I can’t stay here.”
“So go rent one.”
“I can’t. I’m covered in blood and I’m sure they’re watching my bank account. After that, we need to figure out some kind of way to get me out of the country. I’m not going down for this. I didn’t do a goddamn thing, but they’re saying on the radio I masterminded the entire massacre.”
“Well, didn’t you?”
“No, Simone, I didn’t. I tried to keep your uncle away from my house. Somebody tipped him off. I was prepared to deal with the Petroskys myself, take whatever was coming – that you fucking caused – and then everything blew up. So, now, you’re going to help me get out of this.”
“My mom and my aunts are here. I can’t just leave.”
“You’re going out to get breakfast for everybody. That’s the story. I’m in West St. Paul. Call me once you’re on the road and I’ll tell you where exactly.”
“Tell me now.”
“So you can give an anonymous tip to the cops? I don’t think so. Call me when you’re on your way.”
“Why should I help you?”
“Because if you don’t I’ll call the cops and tell them you set the entire thing up – that you wanted to usurp your uncle or something.”
“I’d never do that.”
“Then prove it. Get moving. It’s six thirty-four right now, you have until eight to get here.”
Frank hung up and watched the sunrise, thinking, remembering. It all came back so clear. The flop sweat. The dry throat. He’d tried running before, four years ago. That crime he’d actually committed. Then, he’d tried crossing up into Canada, a straight shot north from the Twin Cities. At the time, he thought the shortest route meant the best, but it turned out to be the most obvious, thus his apprehension. He’d tried going by plane, second stupid mistake, especially since his passport got scanned at the terminal, undoubtedly setting off all kinds of alarms. Idiot. Rich idiot. Rich, spoiled, sheltered, selfish idiot. No, those were two things he wouldn’t try again. They might have the record of the arrest, know what he’d attempted before and expect him to pull a repeat, bet
ting he hadn’t learned. But he had learned. He’d play this smart. He would not make the same mistakes twice.
He noticed something white on the floorboard. Grunting to bend himself in half to reach it, he lifted the tramped, bloody Hawthorne Funeral Home business card off the floor – and put it in his pocket.
* * *
Amber shot awake. The first thing she noticed was she had tubes up her nose. The second thing she noticed she was in a hospital bed. The third thing she noticed was her left wrist was in a handcuff, the other end fixed to the bedrail. She tried sitting up and a thousand little hurts all over her body started yelling at her. She couldn’t see out of her left eye. She reached up with her free hand, which was wrapped in a thick cast, and dabbed at her face, hoping she hadn’t lost the eye – but it was just swollen, a giant goose egg above her eyebrow. She remembered leaving the tavern with her new friends, a few fractured blurry seconds of driving, cop cars screaming by, flashing lights, then a busted keg hissing and hopping around on the ground, the smell of smoking car, blood, and Michelob filling her nose.
She was alone in the hospital room. The door was closed. She could hear people just outside, nurses and doctors, phones ringing, phones being answered. The TV in the corner of the room was currently displaying the local morning news. The word shootout grabbed her attention and with her one good eye, she watched.
“—is thought to be the home of Frank Goode, a former surgeon at the Hennepin County Medical Center, who authorities believe, following release after drug-trafficking charges, was running an illegal medical practice out of his Minneapolis home.”
A picture of Frank, a mugshot clearly taken some years ago, appeared on screen. He didn’t look pleased with himself. A little less gray then, a little rounder in the cheek, but definitely the Frank Goode that Amber knew.
“We take you live now to Northeast Minneapolis, where Ella Knudsen is live on the scene. Ella?”
Cut to a brunette woman in a smart business suit holding a microphone, overly lit, standing in front of a squatty little green house with yellow tape running every which way.
“Thanks, Tom. Behind me is the home of Frank Goode, former surgeon who was released from the Stillwater Correctional Facility two years ago. Late last night, 911 calls were placed complaining about loud noises coming from the home. Authorities, arriving on the scene, found the body of Robert Pescatelli, head of the Pescatelli crime family, and several of its members inside. Also found dead in the home were several members of the Pescatellis’ enemies: Natasha Petrosky, head of the Petrosky crime family, and several key members of the Russian mafia. Among the casualties, Frank Goode’s eighty-four-year-old neighbor Cynthia Shulman, who sustained a gunshot wound to the shoulder. Goode is thought to have coordinated the two rival gangs against one another where the deadly shootout occurred, at his home. Police are unable to find Goode at this time and believe he may still be in Twin Cities.”
Cut back to Tom. “Do the police know what Frank Goode’s plan was, Ella? Perhaps he was trying to help establish some kind of truce between the two gangs maybe?”
Back to Ella. “Right now the police are unable to discern the reason for the meeting at Goode’s home. It’s theorized Goode may have deliberately arranged to have the two families meet so as to provoke a shootout, but they are unsure. Back to you, Tom.”
Tom in the studio. “Thanks, Ella. Well, folks, any second now we’ll have a number on screen for you to call if you see Frank Goode during your morning commute. We recommend you do not attempt to approach him or apprehend him, but call 911 or the number we’ll have – yep, there it is. This is the Minneapolis-St. Paul Police Department tip line. Stay safe out there this morning. We’ll be back in a moment with what we can expect the weather to be this Fourth of July weekend. Keep it here, folks.”
Amber said, “Holy shit.” And for a moment, she’d forgotten about all of the aches and pains dotting her body. She tried sitting up again but something in her hip sent an electric bolt through her. She slumped back, feeling drugged and hungover and beat to hell. And blasting her to sitting upright again was the thought – the money. Where the fuck was the money? She yanked on the handcuffs, only managing to hurt herself more. She mashed the button on the side of the bed, hearing a bell ringing in time outside the door, at the nurse’s station.
A doctor came in, red eyed and rumpled. “Miss Hawthorne, good morning,” he said flatly, as he shuffled into the room with his clipboard open, never looking her way.
“Why am I handcuffed?” Please don’t say for the trafficking of human body parts.
“I should probably leave that up to the officer to tell you. He’s down in the cafeteria now getting coffee. But I’m pretty sure it might have something to do with driving around St. Paul with a BAC of point thirty-one percent.”
“BAC?”
“Blood alcohol content.” The doctor, having heard some snippet of the news apparently, turned to look up at the TV. He stared at the face of Frank Goode, sighed, turned the TV off, and faced Amber again. “Which is a near-lethal level, if you didn’t know.”
“That’s fine, whatever. Do you happen to know where my car ended up? It’s a hearse.”
The doctor flipped some pieces of paper around on his clipboard, running his tongue around the inside of his cheek like he’d recently eaten something sticky.
“Did you hear me?”
“I heard you, Miss Hawthorne, but I believe that’s another topic for the officer. He should be up to read you your rights in a moment. I’m here to talk to you about your injuries and lifestyle choices.”
“I drove drunk, crashed my car, bumped my head, yeah, yeah, yeah. Can I get you to call the bail bonds place so I can get this ball rolling? I need to get outta here. Do you think they’d take the car to the impound or straight to the dump? I don’t know how bad it was messed up.”
“They had to use the jaws of life, so I’m going to assume it’s ‘messed up,’ yeah.”
“Look, man, don’t be an asshole. Write me a script for pain pills or something and bring the release form – I need to go.”
The doctor stared at her a moment, two, sighed again, lifted the clipboard and began reading. “Severe contusion to left forehead, no internal bleeding, no fractures, minor concussion. Fractured cheekbone, clean break, will remodel on its own in time. Spiral fracture in left radius. Two fractures to left ulna, near the wrist and at the elbow. Hairline fracture to left collarbone. Dislocated left shoulder. Muscle tearing and lacerations across right shin and ankle—”
“I get it, you’re a miracle worker,” Amber said. “I’m the Bionic goddamn Woman now. Go outside and flip God the finger or whatever doctors do after a big win, but just bring the release form, okay, Doctor Dickhead?”
The doctor grumbled something about goddamn alcoholics, slammed her chart into the wall-holder, swatted open the door, and left.
Amber sat up as much as her pains – and the handcuffs – would permit, looking around the room for her clothes or her phone. There, on the window sill, was a plastic Ziploc bag with a familiar shape in it. The screen was lighting up and the phone in the bag was slowly scooting across the window sill as it vibrated. She couldn’t reach it, not attached to the bed with all the tubes, handcuffs, IV drips, and the catheter in her. She needed to call Jolene. Somebody had to go track down the hearse. The money, if nobody found it, was still in the back under the spare.
The door swung open and a middle-aged man with a hard scowl on his fry-tanned face entered, pushing an empty wheelchair.
He was in light blue scrubs that didn’t fit him very well. No soft-soled nurse’s sneakers on his feet. Big heavy black boots. He closed the door behind him, parked the wheelchair to one side, and stood staring at Amber lying in the bed. Then, slowly, he took a scan about the room with his deep-set green eyes. Studying Amber again, he looked her over – not like he was checking her out, but like she was
a piece of unwieldy furniture that needed to go up a steep flight of stairs.
“If you’re here to change my bedpan,” Amber said to him, still trying to fling an arm to the window sill to reach her phone, “I haven’t had my morning coffee yet so you’re gonna have to wait.”
The hard-faced man took the chart down from the wall, opened it, read it, tossed it onto the seat of the waiting wheelchair. “You’re Amber Hawthorne?”
“That’s me. Say, if it’s not against the rules, could you bring my phone over there?”
The man, with heavy steps, moved around to that side of the bed. He looked at the phone, then at Amber’s reaching, cast-swallowed arm, then back at the door. “Will you make a fuss?”
“If you do the thing I asked you to do? No, I’ll say thank you. I just need to call my friend. It’s an emergency.”
The man reached for the phone and Amber prematurely gushed her thanks at him – until he stuffed the phone, bag and all, into his scrubs pocket. It was then that Amber noticed he wasn’t wearing an ID badge and his clothes weren’t fitting too snugly on him because the scrubs were the wrong size, but he appeared puffy strictly around the middle – like he was wearing something thick under there, like a bulletproof vest. When he turned to the side, she could see the thick straps peeking out of the V-neck.
She had to swallow before she could speak. “Who are you?”
He was looking at the door, listening. “I’m nobody. I’ll ask you again. Will you make a fuss?”
“Make a fuss about what?”
“I’m going to take you out of here,” he said, “and we’re gonna go see your friends. They want to talk to you. Which will mean me moving you through the hospital, down to the parking garage. I don’t want to knock you out because they want to speak to you as soon as I get you there.”
“What friends? What’re you talking about?”