Tom Piccirilli - The Last Kind Words

There were banded blocks of hundred-dollar bills amounting to around fifty g’s. If I was still a thief I’d be having a very good week. Between Chub’s cache and Wes’s hoard I could’ve set myself up in Miami and lived the righteous life for a year.

He also had five untraceable burner cell phones. I tried one and it worked. I pocketed it. In a small box were a couple of switchblades and a butterfly knife. I snatched the butterfly.

I watched him sleep for a few minutes. His hundred-and-fifty-dollar haircut still looked good after eight hours of tossing and turning. But his face remained scrunched into a harassed expression. I wondered why he put himself through all of this. He wasn’t a born mob mook and he didn’t have the disposition for the serious roughnecking. I couldn’t see him ever killing anyone, but who the hell really knew.

I cleared my throat and said, “Evening, Wes.”

He was a light sleeper. He snapped up out of bed and looked side to side. It took him a second to go for the gun under his pillow. He scrabbled at the mattress and then checked the sheets.

I said, “Relax.”

His eyes cleared and he focused on me. Then he laid back down and rubbed his face. “Terry. Jesus God. You trying to juke me?”

“If I was I would’ve been long gone by now. Besides, Wes, you don’t own a hell of a lot to fence.”

His face fell and flushed so pink that it looked like a kid had dabbed him with a paintbrush. He wouldn’t have minded me robbing him nearly as much as my finding out he was boring as hell. “I’ve been meaning to buy some new stuff.”

“Right.”

“Give me a minute. And get out of my bedroom.”

He bounced away to hit the head and I went and sat on his nice couch in his nice empty living room. He joined me in ten minutes, freshly showered, wearing a clean suit, his eyes as red as if he hadn’t slept at all.

“You’ve got a sweet touch,” he said. “You must if I didn’t wake up.”

“Some skills you never lose.”

He frowned at me. His knitted eyebrows made him look like he was about ten years old. “I don’t appreciate you coming here like this. You could have just called or rung the goddamn doorbell.”

“Don’t get your feelings too bent out of shape or I might remind you that you’ve been parked at my curb, watching my house.”

“I was only doing what the boss told me.”

“I’m only doing what I have to, Wes. Next time I’ll knock, right?”

He sat opposite me. “What do you want, Terry?”

I knew he wanted to get himself some milk. I wanted to tell him that it was okay, but I’d already embarrassed him enough. He wasn’t my friend, but I didn’t have to put him on the defensive like this. I’d been creeping around so much lately after so much time being out of the bent life that I wondered if I could go through a front door anymore.

“It hasn’t been easy for you since Big Dan blew out his heart,” I said.

“I get by.”

“What is Danny into that’s so off course from the way his father played the game?”

“You don’t need to know that, Terry.”

“You really ought to retire.”

It made him laugh and glance around the room like I’d told a complicated joke to a large group of guests and he wanted to see if everyone else was laughing. “And do what? Garden? It’s in my blood. Same as being a second-story man is in yours.”

“I don’t take ulcer medication or have two gallons of milk in my house.”

He leaned in. “You don’t have a house.”

“Good point.”

“So what did you do? Climb on the roof?”

“No,” I said. “Popped out a basement window. It’s easy to creep another criminal’s house. They never have alarm systems hooked up to the police.”

“I’ll remember that.” He held his arms up in a gesture of resignation. “So, you going to tell me what you want, Terry? We haven’t been back to your dad’s place.”

“Let’s table it. Tell me about Butch.”

“Butch?”

“Started hanging around Danny’s not too long ago. Thinks he’s an outlaw. Twenty-one, skinny, busted nose, shaggy hair, pencil beard, smells like acne cream. Sounds like maybe he’s taken down a few small scores.”

“Oh, that kid. Yeah.”

I could tell by the way he said it that he knew my sister was seeing Butch. That it was something they talked about around the Fifth Amendment. Maybe as a joke, maybe as something more. Look at who the Rands are going to welcome into the fold-this dumh="bshit poser. What’s that make him? How do we turn that to our advantage?

“What’s Danny got him doing?”

“Why are you asking?”

“You know why I’m asking, Wes.”

He put his hand to his belly as if the acid were about to eat through his shirt. “If you’ve got questions for the kid, you should break in to his place. Not mine.”

I waited. I wanted a cigarette but Wes didn’t even have any ashtrays.

“He doesn’t do much. He’s an errand boy. Chauffeurs some of the guys around. Picks up food. We send him to the bakery. Gets the dry cleaning and like that.”

“What crew does he run with?”

“No real crew so far as I know. But I don’t know much about the kid. He comes in with losers, strings with a lot of third-raters.”

“You know if they’re moving up?”

He answered carefully. “If they are, Mr. Thompson will get a piece of it.”

I nodded. It sounded about right. Danny wasn’t pushing Butch and his crew into anything, but he wanted them to kick up in case they got away with a score.

“And my sister, Dale?” I asked.

“What about her?” Wes said.

I didn’t want to form the words. “Has she been working for Danny?”

“Ask her.”

“Hey, let’s pretend I’m asking you, right?”

It got tense for a moment. We glared at each other. We were both good at holding a malevolent stare. The pause lengthened. It could go on all night. I let my eyes soften. It was a calculated move for an honest purpose.

“It’s my sister, Wes,” I said. “I need to know if she’s in trouble.”

“She’s what, sixteen? Fifteen? Running around with a scumbag amateur punk who thinks he’s up to raiding big scores. Is she in trouble? Is that really even a question, Terry?”

“I suppose not.”

He smiled without any warmth. “Well, there it is then. But for the record, I don’t know if she’s involved with the crew.”

“You don’t know? You’re Danny’s right-hand man. You fucking run the crew.”

He rubbed at his stomach again and grimaced. “Not so much lately. I handle his business and the main crew, but Mr. Thompson’s… been dealing with out-of-towners.”

“You mean he’s having other syndicate guys whacked.”

“There’s some of that. But other things too. He’s a little paranoid. It’s not his fault. It’s just the life. He has a lot of new help. Some of these guys, I barely know their names. He keeps them close. He includes me on most of it, but not all. I don’t think he trusts me with some of the rougher stuff.”

“Don’t drink milk in front of him. You got any Mace?”

“What? Mace? No. Why would I have Mace? What the hell do you want Mace for?”

I got up and headed for the door. *li01C;Forget it.”

Coming out of Wes’s neighborhood, I took a corner too fast and Collie’s folder came sliding out from under the passenger seat. The papers scattered across the floor mat. I tried to ignore them but they kept drifting, whispering, and drawing my attention.

I pulled over into a strip mall and watched folks going in and out of the stores. Kids still playing on those nickel rides that had been set in cement twenty-five or thirty years ago. A mini-helicopter that went up six or eight inches, then down, a couple of lights flashing. And the children excited as hell and clambering all over it while their mothers did their business in the stationery, the bakery, the laundromat.