Charlie Hustmyre - House of the Rising Sun

Finally, it was time.

Ray had left his room at 9:00 PM. Old Man Carlos was supposed to be a reasonable man, so maybe he would recognize the truth when he heard it. It was ugly, but it was still the truth.

It had been years since Ray was there, so he almost missed it. An unmarked gravel drive that ran off the highway, back toward the lake. Messina’s camp sat on about five acres of land, the front half of which was densely wooded. The only way in was the single-lane driveway.

Tires on gravel make too much noise, so Ray killed his lights and parked on the soft shoulder of the road. From the trunk he pulled the leather bag holding the money and Dylan Sylvester’s Smith amp; Wesson. He thought about leaving the gun behind. You didn’t win friends or people’s trust by pulling a gun, but he decided to keep it in the bag, just in case.

The camp was a hundred yards from the road. It was a single-story, wood-framed house set on thick pylons nine feet above the ground. A wide staircase led to a screened-in porch on the front. Looking under the house, Ray could see a second, smaller set of stairs in the back, on the lakeside. Parked on the cement slab beneath the house were two cars, a black, four-door Cadillac Deville-spaghetti and meatballs, mobsters and Caddies-and Priscilla Zello’s maroon Jag.

As he stood looking at the house, the only sounds Ray heard were the crickets in the woods and the gentle lapping of the water against the boat dock out on the lake. Even though it hadn’t rained since last night, the ground was still saturated from the recent downpours. Through the front windows, Ray saw a couple of lights burning inside.

By fishing camp standards, the place was big, at least 2,000 square feet, with unpainted, rough wooden siding that gave it a rustic look. On three sides the woods were cleared back twenty yards; the lakeside was cleared a little farther, thirty yards down to the water’s edge. The ground between the woods and the cabin was covered with grass. As Ray stepped off the gravel driveway, his shoes sank in the soggy earth.

Creeping toward the house, his feet made sucking sounds each time he lifted them, then sloshed as he took his next step; but it was better than the crunching sound of his footsteps on the gravel. He passed the front steps, went under the house, past the two silent cars, then paused at the foot of the back stairs. They rose to a covered porch with a wooden railing, much smaller than the screened-in patio on the other side of the house. A dim light shone through the glass panes of the French doors.

Ray thought about slinking away, about how stupid this was, about taking the money and leaving town. Instead he tightened his grip on the double handle of the leather bag and tiptoed up the stairs.

I must be crazy.

On the porch, Ray stood to the side of the doors and peered through the glass panes like a Peeping Tom. The master bedroom was lit only by the light from the half-closed bathroom, but that faint glow was plenty enough to see by. Plenty enough to see Carlos Messina’s big fat ass thrusting rhythmically between a pair of soft white thighs.

The sound of the Old Man’s panting and grunting drifted through the door but was nearly drowned out by the shrill screams from the woman under him. Ray couldn’t see her because Carlos’s big, bald head was beside hers, facedown on the pillow, blocking Ray’s view, but he had no doubt who she was.

There was no way he could get a fair hearing if he interrupted, so he waited, but he couldn’t turn away. Like someone passing the scene of a horrible accident, he had to look. After a few minutes the Old Man’s thrusting grew deeper and quicker while the woman’s shrieks became sharper and shorter.

Finally Carlos tensed up, thrust one last time as he let out a long moan, then collapsed on top of the woman. Almost immediately she started to squirm under his weight. The mob godfather rolled off her and onto his back, then used the sheet to wipe the sweat off his face. Priscilla Zello scooted away from Old Man Carlos’s mountain of sweaty flesh.

Ray reached out and grabbed the door handle. He had been ready to kick the door open if it had been locked, but it wasn’t. He just pushed it back and stepped inside.

The bed was to Ray’s right, centered against the wall, a nightstand on either side. Mrs. Zello was sitting up on the far side of the bed. Carlos Messina lay on the side nearest Ray, the mob boss on his back, eyes closed, his furry chest bathed in sweat.

Priscilla saw Ray first. She screamed, a high-pitched, piercing shriek that made the hair on Ray’s arms stand up. The scream was real this time, not like when she was taking Carlos inside her. Like a frightened cat, she backed against the headboard and froze. The Old Man’s eyes popped open and he rolled onto his side, facing Ray. His expression went from shock to anger.

Ray held out his free hand, palm first. “Mr. Messina, I need to talk to you. It’s an emergency.”

Priscilla screamed again. Carlos Messina jerked around and looked at her. Too late, Ray realized the Old Man wasn’t looking at her; he was looking past her, to the nightstand on the other side of the bed, at a Beretta 9mm lying on top of it.

Ray dropped to one knee and let Tony’s leather carryall fall to the floor. He jerked open the zipper and snatched the Smith amp; Wesson pistol from inside. Carlos rolled across Priscilla, one arm stretching toward the gun on the nightstand. Ray ran around the foot of the bed to the far side. Priscilla rolled to her left, out from under her overweight lover, away from the nightstand and the Beretta. With the gun thrust out in front of him in a two-handed combat grip, Ray aimed the Smith. 40 caliber at Carlos Messina’s head. “Stop!”

Carlos looked to his left, stared into the muzzle of Ray’s gun, just four feet from his face. Ray saw the Old Man’s hand freeze less than a foot from the Beretta.

“I just want to talk,” Ray said.

“Kill him,” Priscilla screamed from the other side of the bed. “Kill him!”

Carlos looked at the pistol lying on the nightstand, and then again at the gun pointed at him. Ray sensed him running through the geometry, figuring angles and distances. Evidently, he realized he was going to come up on the short side of the equation, so the Old Man sighed and sat up.

Priscilla looked at Carlos like she had never seen him before, her eyes wide, her mouth open. “What are you doing?” she demanded.

He turned to her and with a calm voice said, “Shut up.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” Then he turned his attention back to Ray. “What do you want?”

Ray relaxed the death grip he had been holding on the gun. “Just to talk. I’m not going to hurt anybody.”

“You expect me to believe that you broke into my bedroom and pulled a gun on me while I was getting a piece of ass just so we could talk?”

Priscilla Zello snorted at the piece of ass reference.

Ray took a deep breath. “I had no choice.”

Carlos stared at him.

Ray moved back around the bed and picked up Tony’s bag. “I want you to look at this.”

“What is it?”

Priscilla Zello’s eyes narrowed. Ray thought he saw recognition in them. He tossed the bag onto the bed. It landed slightly on its side, across Carlos’s outstretched legs, the unzipped top angled toward Ray. Nodding at Priscilla, Ray said, “It belongs to her husband.”

“That’s a lie!” she said.

Carlos gave her a look that shut her up. He left the bag across his legs but otherwise didn’t touch it. From his angle he couldn’t see inside the bag. “What is it?”

Ray glanced back and forth between the two of them, both sitting with their backs against the headboard, both naked, neither making any effort to cover themselves. “Money,” he said to Carlos. “I didn’t count it, but I figure it’s somewhere around three hundred thousand.”