Tom Piccirilli - The Last Kind Words

I snatched up both of the Desert Eagles and extra clips. I counted out forty thousand from his cache and stuffed it in my jacket. I drove over to the Fifth Amendment, walked in, and approached Danny’s table with my hands in my pockets. He and Wes and a couple of his soldiers were eating dinner and drinking wine. I could smell the veal Marsala, spicy garlic tomato sauce, and the fried calamari.

One of his boys-the same mook who’d stopped me during the poker game-lazily moved up in front of me and said, “Hold on, you can’t just-”

I drew the Desert Eagle and shot him in the thickest part of his thigh. He shrieked and fell down, clutching the wound. There was less blood than I’d imagined. I’d never fired a gun before. It was easier than I’d expected.

The rest of his crew started going for their hardware and I rushed up and jammed the pistol under Danny’s left ear.

“Let’s converse,” I said.

Fear twisted in his eyes but he held himself together. “Don’t you think this is a bit much, Terry? You Rands don’t use guns.”

“I’ve had a change of heart.”

He tried to turn but couldn’t do it with the barrel wedged into that ganglia of nerves. “Sorry to hear about your uncle.”

“I came to pay off,” I said. I drew the stacks of money out of my pocket with my left hand and tossed them, one after the other, onto the table. They bounced and fell into his veal, then into his lap. “Here’s the thirty-seven g’s my uncle owed you.”

“But Mal-”

“Plus a little interest. Count it, Danny. And count it slow. Make it last as long as you can.”

Wes very quietly said, “Terry, listen to me now. Don’t do anything crazy. Just think this through.”

“I have.”

“No, no you haven’t, Terry. No, you haven’t at all.”

“You really think this is the best time to argue with me, Wes?”

Danny tried to scoot out of the way of the splashing Marsala sauce but he had nowhere to go. “Wait, just wait,” he said. I finished emptying the cash onto his plate. “You’re smarter than this. You’re much sharper than this.”

“Who was the hitter?” I eyed everyone sitting with him. They all looked like your average mook. None of them stood out from another. None of them had any style or hipness or grace. Any one of them could have been the knife man. I looked for shoulder-holster bulges. It didn’t prove anything. Plenty of hitters ca"1ewonwidthala saucrried guns and then made examples of their victims with blades. “You think your father would approve? Hiring a knife fighter to ice an old man? Two in the head is too clean for you now? My mother and father found him dying in his own shit. You brought my mother into this.”

My vision started to light up with red. I moved the barrel of the gun and pressed it hard into Danny’s left eye.

“That hurts! For Christ’s sake! Stop acting so nuts!”

“Who’s acting?” I said.

“I didn’t do it, Terry! I didn’t order it done! Listen to me. I didn’t do this. Grief has made you stupid. I know something about that.”

“I want the name. If he’s sitting here, tell me now.”

“I have no name to give you. Nobody here does that kind of work. You need to start listening to me.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because we’re friends.”

“We haven’t been friends since the eighth grade, Danny. You’re not counting your money. I wouldn’t want you to think I cheated you. Mal said it was only thirty-seven, but there’s forty. You keep the change, right?”

The guy I’d shot was still rolling around on the floor in agony. The crew started getting antsy. Someone was going to make a move soon. I grinned at them. I pulled the other Desert Eagle out of my waistband and held it on them. I knew at least a couple of these pricks wouldn’t mind seeing Danny go down just so they could skip to another syndicate outfit, head off to Chi or L.A.

One mook really knew how to give a death glare. He was drilling it hard into my forehead.

I let out a chuckle and whispered, “Come on, you.”

Danny knew the scene was a second away from detonating. He held his hands up in front of him and tapped the air, trying to get us all to simmer. Half of his crew looked at him like they hated his guts. I wondered if he noticed.

“If you take me out, you’re doing it for nothing. I didn’t cap your uncle. I didn’t give the word. Whoever did it will still be out there.”

“Your father would be ashamed of you,” I said. “You’ve got no cool, Danny. Your dad wouldn’t have given much more than an asskicking for snatching thirty-seven g’s during a dirty game. Not to someone who deserved as much respect as Mal did.”

“I thought it might come to this. I thought you might think it was me, but you’re usually more levelheaded. I didn’t expect you to take it so far.”

“You’ve got to work on your presentation,” I told him. “You’re not very convincing.”

“I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

Big Dan had done some rotten things in his time but he never crewed up with a psycho hitter who used a blade like that. Mal had thrashed around in his own guts for five minutes before he finally gave in.

And I had heard him talking to someone. I had turned over and gone back to Kimmy instead of looking out the window. All I’d had to do was go to the window and maybe he’d still be alive.

I backed up a step. I checked Danny’s eyes one last time. So far as I could see, he was telli="1@ng the truth. It didn’t mean anything. He was nearly as adept a liar as I was. I said, “We’re done now, Danny, for good.”

I backed up farther. I kept the guns trained on everyone. The mooks looked a little disappointed that I hadn’t pulled the trigger.

“Take your money, Terry,” Danny said. “I don’t want it.”

“It’s not mine. It belongs to Wes.”

Wes sucked down the rest of his wine and poured himself another glass. “I knew you were going to juke me,” he said. “Did you go in through the same window? I don’t care if it does look bad, I’m getting a fucking security system put in.”

I backed out all the way to the front door. Nobody got to their feet. Most of them went back to their food. No one was going to come after me right now. Danny might decide later on that he couldn’t let so brazen a move go without some kind of answer. He had to save face in front of his men and the other outfits. But I thought that maybe this was the breaking point. His men were already jumping ship, and this might make the rest of them go. He wasn’t cut out to be a boss. He couldn’t handle this kind of stress.

I cleaned the guns down and threw them both into the backseat of Wes’s car. I hadn’t accomplished a thing. Just as I was leaving, I saw Butch pull in. I thought, Fuck him, let him drop, I don’t give a shit. He hadn’t even shown at the funeral to help support Dale, the prick.

But I wasn’t going to let my little sister go down with him. She was an actress. I imagined her with a plastic mask over her face, her hair styled short, more boyishly, a padded shirt filling her out with a male physique. I saw her carrying a gun Butch gave her that still had the serial numbers intact. I saw her lying in the backyard with her hands clutched to her belly.

I had to make sure she was safe from coming anywhere near the underneath. I couldn’t let what happened to me and Collie and Mal happen to her.

I drove around town for a while. I turned on the radio. I listened to the news. Cara Clarke’s death had officially been listed as a suicide.

In the morning I drove over to Stan Herbert’s pawnshop. He’d bought out the stores on either side of him and had upped his game. He had a lot of old flea-market type crap but he’d expanded into the real deal. Old TVs, DVD players, DVDs, CDs, iPods, laptops, cell phones, BlackBerrys, digital cameras, and other computer equipment. He still wasn’t going to be able to give Butch’s crew what they were expecting for the ice. Maybe he’d lied to them and planned on making excuses when it was time to pay up.