Victor Gischler - Gun Monkeys

That explained just about everything. If Tina and her chums were running a sting on Jeffers, then she wouldn’t have told Dunn about my bringing the books that morning. That’s why Dunn didn’t search my car or demand the books, didn’t even ask me about them. And Jeffers thought Tina, Styles, and Novak represented the FBI. He’d hand the books right over to Tina if he could just get his hands on them. He’d be too afraid to do anything else.

“You look a little worried,” said Mercury.

“I’m just figuring some things out.”

“You don’t like my story?”

“Keep going. You’re telling it good.”

“There’s really not that much more to it,” said Mercury. “Except for one small matter. Beggar still doesn’t have his ledgers. You have them. This will not do.”

“What do you propose we do about it?”

“In this desk is a metal box,” said Beggar. “In the metal box is twenty thousand dollars in cash. It was meant for the Minelli brothers. They are no longer in a position to spend it. How about I hand it over to you?”

“In exchange for what?”

“Two things.” He held up one finger. “First, you immediately hand over those accounting ledgers. We can tuck them in a nice safe spot and finally stop worrying about them.” He held up another finger. “Second, you leave town. We don’t care where you go, but go far and don’t come back. Beggar doesn’t want any of Stan’s old crew cluttering up the place.”

I looked at him a second, still pointing the gun. Lloyd Mercury was one slick number. And because of that I didn’t trust him, not an inch. He’d put a slug in my back the first chance he got in spite of whatever agreement we made now. And I never forgot for a second what Bob Tate looked like with that bullet hole in his head. Mercury had done that, or at least ordered it.

“No deal,” I said. “But since I’m the one holding the gun, I guess I’ll take that metal box anyway.”

The doorknob rattled. Mercury and I both froze, looked at each other.

A knock. “Boss? What’s up?” Lenny.

Mercury’s smug smile widened just a little.

Lenny tried the knob again. “Hey, boss.”

Mercury was so fast, I wasn’t even sure what was happening at first. He heaved out of his seat, grabbing my wrists, pointing the gun away from him. “Lenny!” he yelled.

The door creaked with impact. A shoulder or a boot trying to bust it down.

I twisted away from Mercury, aimed at the center of the door and fired. The.410 slug bullied through the door, splintered wood, left a hole the size of a softball. I heard a groan on the other side, the thud of impact as a body slid against the door and to the floor. I looked at the gun. Not bad.

Mercury flipped his desk over at me. I stepped back, fired twice more. Huge chunks of desk exploded into the air as dust and splinters. My new favorite gun.

Feet pounded down the hall. Gunfire. Bullets ripped through the door, whizzed past my ears.

Time to go.

I fired the last three shots to buy a little time as I stepped through the back door. Two into the hall door, one into the desk. I didn’t think I hit anything, but the gun made a fine racket. I stuffed the spent revolver into the pea coat and ran full speed down the alley. I took the first turn. Zigged. Zagged. A look over my shoulder. Nobody following. The bus station was five blocks away, and there were always a couple of cabs out front.

I ducked into the station, approached a long line of pay phones. The bus station was deserted, only the guy behind the window was there, and he seemed more interested in CNN on his little television.

I needed some help and thought of Jimmy. Maybe he was still in town. I dropped in the coins, dialed his number.

It rang and rang and rang.

The cab dropped me at Ma’s. I kicked at the dust on the sidewalk for a moment, shoved my hands in my pockets. I looked both ways. The neighborhood was dead still, no kids playing, no dogs or birds, nothing.

I walked toward the house and froze at the bottom of the steps. Someone sat in the front porch swing. I went for my gun but stopped, hand on the pistol butt. For a second I thought I was imagining him, looking at a ghost.

He sat with his hands folded in his lap.

Stan.

He stood. I took a step back.

“Stan?”

“How’s it going, kid?”

Anger and confusion and relief all mixed together. He stood there like the last couple of days were nothing. “I’ve been looking everyplace for you.”

He just started talking like we were back in the monkey cage. “I got a job for you, Charlie. You up for it?”

“Up for it?” I blinked at him. “Up for what?”

“I got a job for you.”

“Stan, where have you been? What’s going on?”

It was like he was looking right past me, putting on some crime-boss act instead of just being Stan. Like he was spilling out lines he’d rehearsed in the mirror.

“I need you to give those books to me,” he said. “Once I have those books, I’m in the clear. Beggar won’t dare move in on Orlando. I’ll have him by the fucking balls.” He handed me a scrap of paper with a phone number on it. “You call me at that number when you get the books. You’re a good kid, Charlie. I know you been saving those books for me.”

Was he out of his mind? Bob Tate was dead. And Benny and Sanchez. Cartwright too. Jimmy had skipped town. There was nothing left to Stan except old bones. He was an empty suit, a king without a kingdom. “Stan, I’ve been looking all over to find you, but there’s nothing left. Orlando is over for us. I’m sorry.”

From somewhere in his little frame, he tapped a store of rage. “You listen to me, Hogan. Nothing’s over till I say it’s over! Get it? Now are you with me or against me?”

“Stan.”

“Dammit, answer me. It’s a simple question. I need to know who’s on my side.”

“Stan, please.”

“What’s it going to be?” he shouted.

“Stan, I’m not Thumbs Hogan.”

“What?”

“You called me Hogan. Thumbs has been dead for years.”

“No, I didn’t.” He wasn’t shouting now. He stared at me, half-confused. “I didn’t do that. What are you saying? You saying I don’t know what I’m talking about?”

“No, Stan.” I felt sick in my gut. “My mistake.”

“You call that number.” He turned and suddenly seemed weak and small as he hobbled down the porch steps. “I’ll be waiting.”

He walked down the street half a block and climbed into a red Pontiac. His driver was waiting.

I stood still, watched the car glide away through the neighborhood, turn and vanish through the trees, back the way it had come, maybe all the way to back to 1955 when Stan had a straight back and a strong voice and a head full of hair, back when his word was law.

I thought about what he’d said to me. It didn’t matter, a conversation between two people who didn’t exist anymore.

To hell with all this.

What did Stan expect? What did he think I could do? All I wanted was to find him and help him, make sure he got away okay. Stan had delusions that he could get back on top again. I didn’t want to think of the old man as slipping, as losing his mind, but he wasn’t facing reality. I was. In my reality, the best I could do was save my own neck, go off someplace with Marcie and maybe have a life. I went in the house.

Inside, the faint sulfur of gunfire still hung in the air.

As I was putting on another pot of coffee, the urgent, panicked thought that Lloyd Mercury was in the house washed over me. I froze, listening for some sign of him. Instantly, I felt ridiculous. I wasn’t used to fear getting me like that, crawling under my skin. It was a new feeling, and I didn’t like it.