Ken Bruen - Bust

He came out of the bathroom, went to the closet and took out two bed sheets. He tucked one of the sheets under the cop’s fat body and then rolled the body onto the rest of it. Then he put the second sheet around the same way and went to the phone and called Sean, one of the other Prov-eens that hung around the boyos. Luckily, Sean was home. Sean was second generation Irish – thus more Irish than the real thing, used to be in the FDNY – and now he drove a livery cab. He said he’d definitely come to the city from Queens to help Dillon out, saying with his stutter, “N-n-nothing to pray about.”

“Is the trunk of yah cab empty, Sean?” Dillon asked.

“W-w-why?”

“You’ll find out me man.”

After Dillon hung up he got two blankets out of the closet and he took the blanket and the sheet off the bed. Blood was soaking through the sheets that were currently wrapping the cop. Grabbing the cop by the feet, he dragged the body into the bedroom area, out of the blood puddle. He wrapped the body up the best he could. It didn’t look very neat, but at least the blood wasn’t leaking through anymore. Next, he got the mop and started mopping, wringing out the red water into the kitchen sink. He could mop like the best of them, prison taught you that. He got rid of most of it, but there was still a big red stain on the floor.

Dillon had nothing to do except wait for Sean, so he watched more Flintstones and some Bugs Bunny – American cartoons were feckin’ mighty – then had another wee dram of Jameson. Well, you would, wouldn’t you, after killing a Guard? After Bugs Bunny he watched some of the Knicks. He was gradually teaching himself about American sport, mainly to fill in the hours. He had learned that when you lose a game you choke. Jaysus, he loved that, you choke. And even better, if you lost a game, they said, Y ou got your arse handed to you.

He glanced at the trussed body and said, “You got yer arse handed to yah, fellah.”

Finally Angela stopped crying. She went into the bathroom and came out, wiping her face with a towel. She sat down next to Dillon, held his hand, and said, “I’m sorry – I really, really am. I didn’t mean to do any of this. He followed me home – I had no choice. It’ll be all right, won’t it? I mean nobody’s come to the door so maybe nobody heard the bloody shots. If they did, maybe they didn’t know what it was. Maybe they just thought it was a car backfiring or firecrackers or some shite. I mean the plan’s still gonna work, right? We’ll still get married, won’t we? And we’ll still get all of my boss’s money too. You’ll see. It’s just gonna take a few months, right?”

He vaguely wondered why, all of a sudden she was speaking like an Irish version of Tony Soprano’s wife.

“Whatever,” Dillon said. He knew none of this was going to happen, but he never saw the point in telling a woman what he was thinking.

During the Knicks post-game show, the buzzer rang. First Dillon made sure it was Sean, then he buzzed to let him up.

Sean was like a caricature mick, red hair, skinny as a rail and with that death-white skin and freckles. He spoke with a stammer, especially when he was drunk, which was most of the time. He drank Guinness like water and spiced it up with Jameson. In the bag, he’d pick the hottest woman in any pub, sidle up to her, and go, “I-I-I d-d-d-dr-drive a c-c-cab. W-w-will you g-g-go ou-ou-out wif me?” Then the left side of his face would begin to twitch, ensuring that any dim hope went right down the toilet. But he had a streak of ruthlessness that rivaled Dillon’s own. It was rumored he’d killed a priest, the worst sin of them all, and said, “I’m going to hell, going to have me own self a time first. The priest will be waiting for me, keep the fire nice and toasty.”

At the door Dillon said, “You leave your cab double-parked like I told you to?”

“Y-y-y-yes,” Sean said. Then he noticed the body on the floor. He said, “Ih-ih-ih-is it a nun?”

“No, tis nothing,” Dillon said. “Just a rent collector.”

You want an Irish guy on yer side, kill a snitch or a rent collector, and you have their undying loyalty.

“G-g-good on yah,” Sean said.

Angela was scrubbing the stains off the kitchen floor with a sponge and Mr. Clean. She said hello to Sean. Dillon said, “Sean, say hello to Angela.”

Sean said, “I d-d-drive a c-c-cab. Will you g-g-g-go ou-ou-out wif me?”

Dillon shook his head, said to Angela, “We’re just going to drive uptown, dump it somewhere, and that’s it.” And to Sean, “You’ll be back home in like a half hour.”

Then Dillon and Sean picked the body up – Dillon lifting from the head, Sean from the feet. The body wasn’t as stiff or as heavy as Dillon expected.

“W-w-w-w-what if s-somebody sees us?” Sean asked.

“We have to be quiet, that’s all,” Dillon said. And then, remembering Lauren Bacall, he said, “You can be quiet, can’t yah, you just put your lips together and shit the fook up.”

Jesus, he loved that broad, Bacall, she was a real dame, a ball-buster and with serious edge. Dillon wondered if she had any Irish in her. If not, he’d have been glad to supply some.

Dillon opened the door and listened closely to make sure nobody was in the hallway or coming up or down the stairs. Then he said, “Let’s go.”

They went down the two flights of stairs like they were carrying a piece of furniture. At the bottom of the stairs Sean walked too fast and the cop’s head banged into the wall.

“Jaysus, yah bollix,” Dillon said. “Take it easy, will yeh?”

They opened the first door into the vestibule then Sean stopped suddenly – his eyes staring ahead. Dillon turned around and saw a man coming up the steps into the building. There was no time to go back upstairs. They just had to move to the side of the vestibule and let the man pass.

Dillon had seen the guy in the building before. He was a typical nancy white guy – wore a suit every morning, going to work. He’d never said a word to Dillon before, but this time he smiled and said, “Moving out?”

He looked drunk and he smelled like alcohol. He was wearing one of his suits, but the tie was on loose.

“No,” Dillon said. “Just tossin’ away me old rug.”

“Cool,” the man said.

He passed by Sean and disappeared up the stairs.

Sean said, “L-l-l-l-l-let’s just g-g-g-g-g-”

“Just shut yer stammerin’ mouth and start movin’,” Dillon said.

They carried the body out to the street. There was no one passing by and no cars were coming. Moving fast, they stuffed the body into the trunk and got inside the car, a dark blue Chevy Caprice. As they were driving up First Avenue, Sean went, “W-w-w-what if that guy c-c-calls the c-c-c-c-cops?”

“No, he was fucked up and he’s a pillow biter, they don’t do cops, if you follow me drift?” Dillon said. “He saw fooking nuthin.”

“Nobody’s s-s-s-s-stupid enough to think that w-w-w-was a rug.”

“Just move it along, yah arsehole,” Dillon snapped.

Cursing to himself and shaking his head, Sean continued to drive uptown. Dillon couldn’t stand the quiet anymore and turned the radio on to a good local Irish station and cranked the volume. When they got to Eighty-sixth Street, Sean said, “Where are we headed?”

“Harlem,” Dillon said. “St. Nicholas Avenue.”

Dillon had used his idle time to walk around Manhattan and he already knew the city as well as a native. At 125th, they cut over to St. Nicholas and continued uptown.

At 144th, he said, “All right, this looks about right. Slow down.”

They turned on 144th and stopped in front of an empty lot of rubble. The streetlights were burnt out on the entire side of the street.