Robert Tanenbaum - Absolute rage

"How do you know this?"

"I know what happens on Belo Knob."

"Well, good for you, but so what? I don't know who you are, or where you got your information. Why should I believe you?"

"They was paid, warn't they? Cades'll kill for fun, but this wasn't no fun killin'. They was paid cash money, ten thousand dollars. Earl was boastin' on it. How'd he get that fancy truck of his? No Cade ever could keep a secret."

"But you're not a Cade." Marlene's thoughts went back to the barbecue supper with the Heeneys, back to things Rose had said, things Poole had let slip. The boy's not telling his surname. "You're a Jonson, aren't you? What's your name?"

He ignored this. "Listen. They cain't touch him, the law's no good around here. But you're from away. That's why I'm tellin' you. You check the money, Weames's money, you'll see."

"What about the pistol? The boy said you might know where the pistol is."

"Well, they didn't throw it down a mine. You look around them all, it'll turn up. Now, that's all I got to say."

The shadow moved, growing large, then shrinking as the man approached the lamp. Marlene heard a clink and a hiss of breath. The room went dark, leaving Marlene blinking at the ghostly afterimage of a white rectangle that shrank into nothing. She stood up, knocking over the stool, and fumbled in her pocket for her keys. She pressed the stud on the tiny key-chain light and the room glowed in its beam. No one was behind the sheet. A back door swung loose on a single hinge. She listened for footfalls or the sound of a car engine, but heard nothing more than the eternal crickets and the wind in the grass.

Through this grass she walked then, guided by her light. She found the truck, let the dog into the shotgun seat, slipped behind the wheel, and thought, idly rubbing the dog's ears to improve concentration. The hidden man had seemed to know what he was talking about. At the very least he had confirmed her suspicions. The question was going to be how to prove it in court. Not my department anymore; wait for Butch, and then what? Offer it up and depart? Probably. How did they know I'd be at that bridge? Somebody told them. Who knew? Poole and Dan. Couldn't be Dan, had to be Poole. Ask him, but not now. Now, should she continue her string of stupid moves and try to find her way off this mountain on steep, unmarked trails in the pitch dark, or should she just sit here with her dog and wait for morning light? She put the question to the dog and got the sensible answer she expected.

All of them were packed into the black Ford Explorer: Lucy, the twins, Tran, and two young Vietnamese men, part of a shifting crew that Lucy had started to call privately the Lost Boys. Freddy Phat drove. Where were they going? A surprise, said Tran. They drove briefly on the highway and then turned off into what looked like an extensive industrial district, a reminder of Bridgeport's glory days as the national machine shop and instrument maker. Most of the factories were vacant, their yards weed-grown, their windows staring, glassless. They stopped before a chained gate in a long chain-link fence around what seemed to be a large, derelict industrial property. One of the boys jumped out and unlocked the chain.

"What is this place, Uncle?" Lucy asked.

"It is a cement plant. I own it."

"I thought you were in the restaurant business."

"Yes, but one must diversify." He used the English word. "Or so I have read. Besides, you know, I am a gangster, and all gangsters must have a cement plant."

"Are we going to observe you constructing a concrete canoe for a squealer?"

"Of course not. Such an event would not be suitable for your brothers. No, we are going to shoot."

The property was extensive. They passed a row of gray, peak-roofed buildings equipped with silos and smokestacks and came to a huge sandpit. A crude plywood table was at the lip of the pit and an old wooden swivel chair. Out in the pit against a mound of sand some twenty-five yards away stood a structure of two-by-fours like a giant easel. The Lost Boys got out of the SUV with a brown duffel bag and laid it clanking on the table. Then they went into the pit and stapled a number of silhouette targets to the two-by-four frame.

Freddy Phat lined up the weapons on the table, with stacks of clips and magazines, like cakes at a bake sale. There was an AK-47 assault rifle, a Skorpion submachine gun, a Beretta 9mm pistol, and a Colt.45 Gold Cup. Everyone put earplugs in. The two Lost Boys fired first, then Freddy Phat. Tran sat in the swivel chair and made comments in Vietnamese, mostly to do with not wasting ammunition, firing shorter bursts, keeping control. He did not seem all that concerned with the marksmanship of his staff. The twins and Lucy stood back and watched. The Lost Boys stopped firing and replaced all the shredded targets.

Then it was the twins' turn. Lucy watched Tran showing Zak how to fire the Beretta, placing his feet, arranging his hands on the weapon. Tran's horrible scarred hands against the smooth flesh of the boy's hand. She recalled Tran teaching her to shoot in the same way, when they were in the city. She was younger then than the boys were now, and mad for shooting.

Tran took Zak through all the weapons, crouching behind him supporting his arms when necessary. Zak's face was shining with joy. Then Giancarlo, just the pistol and the Skorpion, and then he said he had a headache and withdrew.

Tran turned to Lucy with an inquiring look. "No, thank you, Uncle, not today."

"You used to enjoy it so much."

"Yes. But now I don't think it's good for me to shoot, especially not at man targets. I can't not think about what the bullets are meant to do, to people's bodies. It makes me too sad."

He nodded and looked sad himself.

"But aren't you going to shoot?" she asked.

In answer he removed a small weapon from his jacket pocket.

"Oh, you still have the Stechkin," she said.

"Yes. You remember you were always plaguing me to let you fire it, and I would not. Would you like to now?"

"I don't think so," she answered, smiling. "I missed my chance, I think."

He turned toward the firing line, hefting the little weapon.

Zak asked, "What is that? Another pistol?"

"Yes, but a machine pistol. It's very rare. Most people can't shoot one very well."

"But he can."

"Yes," Lucy said. "Tran does most things very well."

Tran shot. In an instant the center of the target vanished into flapping rags.

After the shooting party, they all went to one of Tran's restaurants and in a private room had stuffed squid and garlic quails. Lucy was glad the boys had been trained from an early age to eat everything, and they did not disgrace her in the American fashion by demanding hamburger. After the meal they returned to Tran's house, where their host and his minions departed for their regular evening round of inspection, collection, and terrorization. Lucy took her brothers, who were hyped and restless, on a walk through the parklike neighborhood. They found a playground, a basketball court, and three kids of around fourteen playing horse in the fading light. Did they want to have a game, Lucy asked them, and after some nervous hesitation, they agreed. They had expected a walkover, a girl and two little kids, but the Karps had been playing b-ball together for a long time, and Lucy was as good a player as you were likely to find outside of a top-flight college team. Zak was an excellent shot and aggressive even against kids twice his weight, although he shot whenever he had the ball. Giancarlo was a born point guard and had inherited from his father an almost preternatural sense of what everyone on the court was likely to do next. They played until they couldn't see anymore, winning two, losing one.

Later, as Lucy tucked them into their sleeping bags in the guest room, Zak said, "This was the best day of my whole life."