Tom Piccirilli: The Cold Spot

He said almost casually, “Damn it. I knew you two were up to something. That was very slick. That security gate cost me almost five grand.”

“You need an upgrade,” Chase told him.

“Security tapes,” Jonah said. There were at least two cameras trained on them.

Shonny sighed. “Under the counter.”

Most pawnshops would have the taping equipment in the back, running all the time. But Shonny’s other customers wouldn’t be happy with that. They’d want to see him shut everything off and erase the tapes right in front of them, so he kept the gear close and up front. Jonah motioned Shonny aside and Chase slid behind the counter, shut the equipment down, and popped the tapes.

Chase knew guys like Shonny cared more about their money than their own lives or the lives of their friends. It was a kind of sickness, but there it was, and half the guys he’d ever run into in the bent life were pretty much the same. So Chase wanted to appeal to him fast.

He said, “Shonny, we’re not here for your cash. We could tap-dance around each other for twenty minutes, but I’m all out of patience and time. I want Earl and Ellie Raymond. You deal with them. You still must have some payout for them from the double diamond merchant score. Just give me where they’re holed up and you might walk away from this.”

“‘Might walk away?’ From guys like you two? You’re lying to a dead man, and I’d say that’s simply unforgivable.”

“Maybe you missed the frenzy in my voice, Shonny.” Chase brought the butt of the gun down across Shonny’s bald head and opened a gash up. It wasn’t too hard a shot, but head wounds were notorious bleeders, and already there was a pint leaking down Shonny’s slightly aggrieved face.

Yanking him up by his collar, Chase stuck the barrel of the 9mm under Shonny’s chin. “Might walk away’s about as good as you’re going to get from me, and the longer you make me wait, the thinner your chances get. So how about it?”

You had to give it to him, he was holding on. Some of these old-timers, they figured they had one foot in the grave already so figured they could tell anybody to fuck off. “What do you want with them?”

“I want to sell them some aluminum siding,” Chase said and dug the gun in farther until Shonny let out an ugly “glckk” noise. He lashed his head to the side and a swathe of blood splashed against the floor.

Now maybe they’d get somewhere. Shonny Fishman held out another minute and said, “121 Pine Drive in Smithtown, out on the Island.”

That was Marisa Iverson’s-Ellie Raymond’s-address, the house Chase had broken into.

“You prick.” Chase smacked him in the head again with the barrel of the gun. Shonny cried out but not enough.

All right, it had to be done. Chase worked the guy’s ribs with four fast body blows. No matter how tough you thought you were, a broken rib would change your goddamn mind.

It happened so quick that Shonny Fishman didn’t even scream. He hacked up pink phlegm and started to slide to the floor, but Jonah propped him against the counter.

“Listen, Shonny,” Chase said. “I respect your loyalty, courage, determination, and all that. But next I’m going to shoot off your johnson. I’m not going to kill you, get it? You’re not going to die. But I’ll leave you in a very bad ugly mess, and even an old bastard like you doesn’t want to piss through a tube, right? So, in case you missed it, I don’t want your money. In this world, that makes me as righteous a soul as you’ve ever met. Now, where are they?”

Shonny Fishman’s eyes were brimming with worry now. Even if he wasn’t getting laid regularly or couldn’t get it up anymore a guy still liked to know he had a pecker.

Putting the barrel of the 9mm to Shonny’s crotch, Chase said, “It’s time. Where are they?”

“Foundry Street.”

“Newark?”

“It’s a run-down motel. I don’t know which number room they’re in.”

“How many? Who’s there?”

“Ellie and Earl and Slip.”

The Deuce had mentioned that name. “Slip Jenson. He have a scar on his forehead?”

Shonny had to use his knuckles to clear the blood from the corner of his eyes. “Yeah. The others, I don’t know their names, but they took their share of the initial payout and went to A.C. to blow it on hookers and Texas Holdem. That’s what Earl said.”

That didn’t matter unless one of them was the driver. Chase had to be sure. “Now just one more thing. Who’s the getaway man for their crew?”

“Earl. Earl does all the driving.”

There it was.

Checking out the counter to see if there were any watches or rings he might want to pocket, Jonah said, “If you don’t ace him, he’ll call them and they’ll run again.”

Finally, that got Shonny truly scared. Jonah could do it to you, no matter how solid you were. Shonny started waving his hands, jittering in place. “Wait wait, listen to me, you don’t have to do anything. I’m no trouble to you-”

The cold spot beckoned. Chase slid into it. He was hard and he was cool. Cool enough to know you didn’t snuff some prick just because he’d done business with the guy you really wanted. He couldn’t lose focus on the driver.

“Let’s go in the back.”

“I told you, I’m not a threat! You don’t have to do this!”

“Shonny, you get all uptight at the worst times.”

He slugged Shonny across the back of the head, a blow he figured would keep the guy unconscious for a few hours. It would be all over by then, one way or another. He could feel that now.

The icy breeze in the cold spot whispered the truth to him. There was an understanding about death and murder and the extent of blood and heartache. How grief could drive you out of your head, the way it threatened to do with him right now, the way it had done with his father. He had to hold steady.

Jonah said, “You’re still playing it wrong.”

Chase dragged Shonny Fishman to his back room. There was another cage back there full of jewelry and other high-end items he didn’t leave out front on the floor. He got Shonny’s keys out, tossed the guy inside, and started to close the gate. Jonah stepped forward and pulled a canvas bag from underneath his jacket. He cleaned the shelves and slammed the gate shut.

On their way out he threw the tapes in the bag too.

They walked to the Chevelle and Angie was in the driver’s seat. Chase glared at her and she slid away into the back. She’d played it smart. She’d been prepared in case something went wrong and they had to bolt out of there fast. But you never got behind the wheel of another driver’s car. Unless you were stealing it.

Chase pulled away from the curb and drove like a little old lady up through SoHo, heading for the Holland Tunnel. The engine wanted to scream. So did he.

Not even nine-thirty yet and the motel manager’s office was locked. It was that kind of a place. Nobody needed to spend a night over in this part of Newark unless they were blowing through on a job or looking for a twenty-minute hooker. The manager would be some old man off getting a few beers around the block. He’d be back on deck in a half hour and then he’d go off again when he got too bored. The whores wouldn’t be out in full swing until midnight when they started pulling over tricks on the turnpike or Route 9a. It had once been a residential area and a few dilapidated houses remained. Foundry Street was a dead road in a dead part of a dying city.

Chase popped the door and checked the wall where the room keys were set on hooks. The motel hadn’t upgraded to computerized cards and never would. They’d raze the place first. Seven rooms were currently in use.