Chris Holm - Dead Harvest

Oh, well, I thought — only one way to find out.

I yanked the joystick to the right. The chopper banked. She lost a little altitude as well, and a maelstrom of leaves and branches raged around us. I caught a glimpse of shimmering water just ahead before the chopper plunged entirely below the tree line, and then I saw nothing but green.

There was nothing left to do but pray.

We emerged from the canopy like a slug from a barrel, our rotor twisted and unmoving above us, our landing skids both certainly gone. The cabin tilted, and I fell from the pilot's seat, slamming hard into the window beside me. Through it, I saw the water rise to meet us, and then a murky nothing as it engulfed us in a roar of surf and a screech of rending metal. And then my forehead met the windshield, and the world went dark.

The gun was a dull, ugly affair, all scuffed and gray and worn. A tiny little revolver with a nasty snub nose and a peeling leather grip, it had the look of a featherweight boxer gone to seed. I hefted it in my hand, marveling at its weight. Then I extended my arm outward, lining the sight up with the clock that sat behind a wire cage just a few feet above the countertop.

"Whoa, pal, that iron's hot! Do me favor and maybe don't go ventilating my shop, huh?"

I looked at him and set the gun down on the counter. He was a wiry guy of maybe forty, with beady close-set eyes and nervous hands, which at the moment were tapping out a jaunty number on the countertop. He wore a pair of baggy wool trousers, held up by a set of suspenders over a greasestained T-shirt. Except for me and him, the hock shop was empty. I looked him up and down, and wondered was he always this nervous, or was it my sparkling personality that had him on edge. Then again, I guess it coulda been the gun.

"You always keep 'em loaded?" I asked.

"No, not always. But guys like you, they come in wantin' a piece, I've found it ain't wise to keep 'em waiting."

"What do you mean, guys like me?"

"You know," he said, looking suddenly uncomfortable, "guys like you. Made guys."

So that's what I'd become? A made guy? My friend here said it with such reverence it made me want to puke.

"So how much?"

"For you? Twenty-five bucks."

"That seems a little steep."

The drumming on the counter sped up a bit. The guy looked a little green. "Hey, that thing's got no serial, no history. That's a good deal I'm giving you — Scout's honor."

I looked him up and down. "You were a Boy Scout?"

"Hey, we've all been something we ain't anymore, you know what I mean?"

Yeah, I knew what he meant. I tossed some bills down on the counter and stuffed the gun into my pants pocket.

"There's thirty here," he said.

"Keep it," I replied. I left him grinning like an idiot behind the counter as I left the shop and stepped out into the cool September night.

On the street, I hailed a cab, and told the cabbie the corner of Whitehall and Bridge. I was headed to the Alexander Hamilton U.S. Custom House, where I was to exchange the envelope in my pocket for another that I'd deliver to Dumas later tonight. The envelope in my pocket was full of cash. God knows what was in the other one. Documents, I'd guess — the kind of documents that could slap a veneer of legitimacy on whatever illegitimate shit Dumas was bringing in through the harbor. Or maybe they were raffle tickets. Truth be told, I didn't care.

This wasn't the first time I'd made the customs run for Dumas, or even the fifth, and every time it was the same. This time of night, the building was pretty quiet. My contact would meet me at the service entrance around back. We'd make the exchange and go our separate ways — no fuss, no mess, no complications.

So if everything was roses, why'd I need the heater? Because like I said, every time it was the same. Make the swap, bring the papers to Dumas. Always a spot of his choosing, always far from prying eyes. The only difference was, this time he was gonna get a little lead along with his envelope.

I wasn't happy with the thought of it, but I'd gone over it a thousand times, and every time, the outcome was the same. Elizabeth's program ended in just under a week, but she'd been off the drugs for days — the docs just wanted to keep an eye on her, make sure she didn't relapse. Once she was out, Dumas and I were done, at least to my mind. But when I'd broached the topic to him, he just laughed and shook his head. "Hate to have you get her home all healthy, just to have her take a nasty spill," he'd say, eyes dancing with mischief all the while. Always friendly, jovial — like he thought that it was cute. But I meant to get out, and if he didn't mean to let me, then I was gonna have to find another way.

The Custom House was an imposing Federal structure, six stories of cold granite overlooking Battery Park, and New York Harbor beyond. I set fire to a cigarette and made my way to the service entrance. Three cigarettes' wait, and the exchange went off without a hitch. My hands trembled with anticipation as I handed over the envelope, but if my contact noticed it, he didn't let on. The envelope he handed me, I folded, and stuffed into my pocket. For maybe the hundredth time, I thought myself a fool for going through with the swap, when I could've just taken the money and used it to help us disappear once the deed was done. But even if I could stomach taking it, the people it belonged to weren't likely to let its disappearance slide, and that'd result in a whole lot of the wrong kind of attention for me. No, it was best for me if they thought the hit and this transaction had nothing to do with one another. If that meant Elizabeth and I fled broke, then that was just how it had to be.

The walk across Battery Park seemed to take forever. My nerves were jangling, my knee was killing me, and despite the chill breeze that blew in across the harbor, my hands and neck were slick with sweat. Dumas and I were to meet at the entrance of the old fort. Designed to protect the harbor from the British navy in the War of 1812 but never once seeing battle, it now sat squat and lifeless beneath a starless sky. A little more exposed than I'd have liked to be, but I've since learned these things rarely go as smoothly as I'd like.

Dumas was chomping on an unlit cigar when I arrived. "Evening, Sammy," he said, though the words were garbled by the fact that he never removed the cigar from his mouth. "I trust you got something for me?"

"Yeah," I said. I thrust my hands into my pockets, producing the envelope from my left and handing it to him. My right hand stayed in my pocket, wrapping tight around the gun grip.

"You all right? You don't look so hot."

I laughed, cold and bitter. "Truth is, I don't feel so hot," I said. "But I think things are looking up."

"Yeah? Why's that?"

I wanted to have something cool to say to that. Something bad-ass. Something that let Dumas know that I was done playing the patsy for him. But when I opened my mouth, the words just wouldn't come.

Dumas cocked his head, eyeing me with sudden suspicion. "Sammy, what the hell is going on?" Then I pulled the gun, and he knew exactly what was going on.

I stepped in close. Grabbed him by the collar, shoved the gun into his gut. One, two, three, and it was done. His body muffled the reports, but still my ears rang. I didn't have long before the bulls arrived. I let go of him, then, watched him slump to the ground, eyes wide and blank and dead. Three blooms of red spread out across his chest. So much blood. I looked down at my hands, and they were spattered with it — that and gunpowder burns. The gun fell, forgotten from my hands. I stood trembling in the chill night air, tears stinging my cheeks. I thought that once the deed was done, I'd feel relief, but I didn't — I just felt sick. Sick and hollowed-out.