Stuart Kaminsky - Dead of Winter

Stevie had to get into his apartment, find out. He had to get the few things he cared about in there and go somewhere, check in with Marco and go to Detroit or Boston. He knew Detroit and Boston.

"I'm not afraid," Lilly said.

"What?"

"That man inside the barn isn't going to kill Marshall Dillon," she explained. "The music says he might, but if he killed Marshall Dillon, there'd be no more shows and we know there were lots of them."

"You're smart," said Stevie, touching the top of her head with a broad palm.

"Smarter than the average bear," she said.

Stevie didn't get it.

The show ended. Marshall Dillon shot the bad guy in the barn. Stevie stood up. He had to know.

"You stay in here," he said. "You might hear some noise in the hall but you stay in here. Lock the door behind me."

"You have to go?"

"Business," he said.

"The man in your apartment," said Lilly.

"Yeah."

"Are you coming back when you're finished with him?"

"Not today," he said.

He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the painted dog she had made for him.

"Thanks," he said, holding it up.

"You really like it?"

"Best birthday present I ever got," he said, putting the dog back in his pocket.

He turned down the volume on the television set, walked to the door, opened it slowly, quietly, while Lilly watched.

"Lock it," he whispered.

She nodded, followed him to the door, and locked it behind him.

In the hall, Stevie stood still for a few seconds and then moved silently to his apartment door. Did the man inside leave the door unlocked? Probably not. He would want to hear Stevie put his key in the lock, turn it, which was why Stevie instead threw himself at the door.

Don should have been ready, but the huge man who flew past the splintered door and lunged at him was moving too quickly for the detective to pull out his weapon.

He started to rise from the chair but the big man flung himself toward him, landing with his full weight on Don, sending them both toppling to the floor.

"Police," Don panted.

The big man was on top of the detective who was pinned to the floor, pain in his back from the metal leg of the chair digging into it.

Stevie was relieved. Marco had not sent someone to kill him. Stevie could deal with the police. He had his entire life. Anthony Korncoff, who had spent half his life in cells, said Stevie's survival was a direct result of Stevie's relative lack of intelligence.

"You're all animal instinct," Korncoff had said.

Stevie had taken it as a compliment. Stevie kept everything simple. He had to. Once Stevie told a lie, he stuck to it. He couldn't be, had never been rattled. He wasn't rattled now.

"What do you want?" said Stevie.

"Get off me and we'll go in for a few questions," said Don, trying to ignore the pain and the weight of the big man.

"Questions about what?" asked Stevie.

It was possible this man pinning Don to the floor had murdered Cliff Collier a few hours earlier. It was certain he had something to do with Alberta Spanio's murder. It was likely that if Don said any of this, the big man would kill him.

"Let me get some air," Don gasped.

Stevie considered and sat back. It was a mistake. Don got to his gun and was pulling it out of the holster under his jacket when Stevie's fingers found his throat.

Don could feel the thick thumbs digging into his neck, deeply, quickly. He fired. He wasn't sure where the gun was aiming. He hoped it was toward Big Stevie Guista.

Stevie grunted, his thumbs loosened slightly. Don hit the big man in the nose with the barrel of his gun and Stevie stood up on wobbly legs, blood coming from a wound in the fleshy upper part of his left leg, blood flowing from his broken nose.

Don skittered backwards on the floor. He still wanted to take the man in, but he wasn't going to take any chances.

He hesitated. Big Stevie kicked the gun out of the detective's hand. The gun rose and landed with a clatter in the kitchen sink.

Stevie had a choice. There had been a shot. People might have heard. Should he kill the policeman? Did he have enough strength to do it? Would it make the pain and bleeding worse? And what was there to gain from killing another cop?

There was no choice. Stevie lumbered past the open door and into the hall.

Behind him he could hear the cop trying to get up. The door to the apartment across from his opened. Lilly stood there looking at him.

"I'll be all right," he said. "Go back in. Lock your door."

"You're hurt," she said plaintively, seeing the wound in his leg.

She began to cry.

He glanced back at the cop who was struggling to get up.

"No one ever cried for me before," he said.

He smiled through the blood that covered his face and turned his teeth red.

Stevie staggered quickly down the hall without looking back. His hand found the painted dog in his pocket. He held it tightly, but not so tightly that it would break.

Mac and Stella missed Stevie by no more than three minutes. They saw the drops of blood on the stairway as they climbed the stairs. They didn't know whose blood it was but they could tell that whoever had been bleeding had gone down the stairs, not up. The blood drops left a small tail in the direction from which the bleeding person had come.

When they stood in the doorway of Stevie's apartment, Mac had his gun drawn.

The little girl from across the hall who they had talked to earlier was kneeling next to Don Flack, who sat on the floor, wincing.

"Rib or two broken I think," he said. "Guista can't be far. Couple of minutes ago. Shot him."

Stella moved to Don's side as Mac turned, gun in hand, and followed the trail of blood.

The woman, tall, pretty, short platinum hair, probably somewhere in her mid-forties, wore a gray suit, white blouse, and a simple strand of faux pearls around her neck. She exuded class amid the smells of baking bread. The faint sound of voices wafted from the bakery down the hall and beyond the double doors.

Danny wanted to adjust his glasses but kept from doing it. Somehow he thought the woman would pick up on the move as insecurity.

"You want to see Mr. Marco about…?" she asked, looking at the uniformed officer behind Danny. The officer was broad, experienced, dark-skinned. His name was Tom Martin. He met the woman's eyes without blinking.

One of the first lessons he had learned twenty-one years ago in the Academy was that when you were faced with a tough nut, don't blink. Literally, figuratively, don't blink. His instructor, a much-decorated veteran, had suggested that they watch the eyes of movie stars.

"Charlton Heston, Charles Bronson," the instructor had said. "They don't blink. That's part of their secret. Make it part of yours."

Martin knew where they were and why. No trouble was expected, but he had gone through seemingly innocent doors before and found himself facing semi-human or stone-cold madness. That was how he had earned the pink scar on his chin and a lot of experience.

"Mr. Marco is busy," said the woman, who didn't introduce herself.

"I just want to look in the bakery and ask a few questions," Danny said.

"I can answer your questions," she said.

"Is Steven Guista here?"

"He has today and tomorrow off," she said. "His birthday. Mr. Marco remembers the birthdays of those loyal to him."

Danny nodded.

"Is his truck here?" asked Danny.

"No," she said. "Mr. Marco let him use it for transportation for his birthday."

"A truck?" asked Danny.

"A small delivery truck," she said.

"I'd like to see the bakery and Mr. Marco now," Danny said. "I could come back with a warrant."

"I'm sorry, but…" she began.