Tom Piccirilli - The Last Kind Words

Dale said, “And now you’re telling me I can trust you?”

“You probably won’t, not for a while. But yes, Dale, you can trust me.”

She grunted like she didn’t believe a word I might ever say. I wouldn’t believe me either. I thought the ride might help to calm things down. I was wrong again. I took us out to Ocean Parkway. She didn’t argue and say she was busy. She put her feet up on the dash the way that Kimmy used to do, and she let me open up the throttle and kick it up to triple digits in the rain. I knew she was a speed demon like Butch was. I could imagine her urging him on faster as he tore past the sand-strewn beach roads. It was a rite of passage. JFK hung his head out the win19;dow, and the rain spattered his thick old face and he panted into the wind. Occasionally he let out a bark. I wanted to do the same. We crossed the causeway and watched the bay thrash below us. It was primal and calming. It spoke to something inside both of us. I could see her readying herself to say something more. I wondered if she was going to admit to working with Butch or being closer with Danny Thompson’s crew than I ever hoped she’d be. I spun through the traffic circle at the far end and drove back across the bridge much slower and more composed. Dale bummed another cigarette off me. She used a chamois cloth on the floor in back to wipe JFK’s fur down. I waited for her to spill. I headed toward home and she turned her head twice in quick succession like she wanted to get a good look at me, maybe check my eyes, before saying the next thing she had to say.

“Okay, so tell me,” I said.

She twisted a lock of her hair and drew it over her ear. “There is something, I think. I’m not sure.”

I asked, “What?”

“I think someone’s been following me, but I could be wrong. It’s just a feeling.”

“Cops?”

“They’re easy to spot. No. Someone else. Maybe because of Collie.”

“Reporters?”

“I don’t know.”

“When did this start?”

“I’m not certain. Nothing I can put a finger on. It feels like it’s been there for a while but I can’t pinpoint an exact time, you know? It’s just been at the back of my mind and now it’s sort of moved to the front.”

“Someone angry at Collie who wants to take it out on his family? That kind of feeling?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You ever see anyone?”

“No.”

“When’s it happen? At home?”

“Yes, when I’m coming home or leaving for school. And at other times. When I’m shopping at the mall with friends. I get a sense that someone is watching.”

“Could it be someone from Danny Thompson’s crew?”

She froze up for a moment, then seemed to slowly regain the power of movement as she nodded. “So you know about that. About Butch working for Danny.”

“Yes,” I said.

She nearly spit her words. “Of course you do. It’s just small-time stuff.”

“I heard. Has he had a falling-out with Danny?”

“No. Maybe. I’m not sure. He’s… he’s involved with something new. A job. I think Danny might be pressuring him for details. Or for money up front.”

Dale spoke like she couldn’t believe the truth of what she was saying, as if she was having déjà vu and hoping for some different outcome this time.

“And you’re worried that he might be using you as leverage against Butch?” I asked.

“You tell me. You know that prick better than I do.”

“I don’t know him that well anymore.”

She didn’t say she thought it might be nothing. She didn’t say it might just be all in her head and she might just be acting paranoid. She knew enough to trust herself, to be wary and on her toes. It was a part of being born into this bent life of ours.

“You ever spot a black Mercedes tagging around you?” I asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“Keep an eye out for it. Do you carry any kind of weapon, Dale?”

“What, like a gun or a knife?”

“Like pepper spray?”

“No.”

We drove through neighborhood streets that had flooded. Trash spiraled in the gutters, the sewer grates boiling up like there were sharks under the water.

“I’ll get you something,” I said. “Maybe Mace.”

“They don’t sell Mace anymore.”

“I might be able to get it. You carry it with you everywhere you go from now on.”

“I want a knife,” she said.

She laid it out flat and I wondered if she’d been lying to me. She might just want a knife because she was hooked up with Butch and his crew and she knew that if anything ever went down wrong she’d be able to play sweet and get up close and stick the blade in. At least she thought she could.

I felt my neck flush and straightened my collar to hide it. My Christ, what the hell was going on with this family?

“Maybe I’ll get you a knife too,” I said. “Something small. But you aim for the eyes and throat and it’ll be effective. You feel like someone is following you again, you call me, wherever you are, day or night, you let me know. If anyone tries to grab you, you douse his eyes or you stab him in the face. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

We pulled up in front of the house. She didn’t say, I know you won’t let me down . She didn’t say, I believe in you .

“Aren’t you coming in?” she asked.

“I have to be somewhere. Take the dog, all right, Blanche?”

“Fucker.”

She almost gave me that gentle empty touch on the arm that she’d trained herself to give the rubes. Instead, she leaned over and kissed my cheek.

Dale called the dog. JFK climbed out the passenger side and let my sister lead him up the walk. He turned back once and gave me a sad stare, like he had plenty of his own secrets to spill that would haunt us all forever.

Wes used to have a small apartment on the north side of Main Street, above a delicatessen that was one of Big Dan Thompson’s fronts. Now he owned a nice house on the south side, right off the bay. A canal ran behind his patio deck. A twenty-eight-foot sailboat sat at a private dock. The sails hadn’t been tied down properly and they’d become worn and frayed, flapping loose in the wind. The rails hadn’t been polished in years and the deck had banged around so much in storms that I could see cracks worrying up from the keel.

The four-bedroom house was full of expensivighwaid seeof Maine, practical furniture. Chandeliers, marble tiling, a fireplace without an ounce of ash in it. A dining room that sat twelve. A living room with lush leather L-shaped couches, thick white carpeting, a huge plasma television and entertainment system. Coaster trays on every end table. The kind of room where you hosted large parties, serving martinis and canapés.

There were two fresh gallons of milk in the fridge but no beer. It told me that Wes either ate a lot of cereal or had ulcers.

No photos on the shelves, no pictures on the walls. No CDs or DVDs. Nothing that said he spent any time here relaxing. No sign of friends or family anywhere. No women’s deodorant or Tampax in the bathroom. No drawer set aside for a girlfriend. No condoms in his nightstand. No spank mags in either of the bathrooms. No recreational drugs. I found the ulcer meds in his medicine cabinet.

Wes had moved up in the world but wasn’t enjoying himself much.

He was out cold in the master bedroom. Like every syndicate guy who did business out of a bar or a titty joint, he didn’t crap out until eight or nine in the morning and didn’t get his day started until maybe five P.M.

He slept with a.32 snub under his pillow. I’d never known anyone paranoid or dopey enough to really keep a pistol under their pillow. He could sneeze or have a nightmare and put one in his own ear. Danny really had him knotted up inside. I unloaded the snub and left it on his dresser. In his closet I found a false back with an assortment of guns stashed behind it, including two.357 Magnums, a couple of Desert Eagle 9mms, and one semiauto rifle. They all appeared to be unfired.