Lou Berney - November Road

“Tell me what you have.”

Armand took out his ring of keys. “Well, snubbies, take your pick, two-inch or four-inch. Clean, guaranteed. Or you want something with a little more gris-gris, I got another .22 Magnum, cut down to the stock.”

“How much for the .22?” Barone said.

“Cost me a nickel more than the last one did.”

Barone doubted it. “Clean?”

“Guaranteed.”

“I’m not paying an extra nickel.”

“Oh, baby, you gonna put me outta business.”

“Let’s see it,” Barone said.

Armand unlocked the door to the back room. It was half the size of the front room, just enough space for a few boxes and a steamer trunk. He squatted down to unlock the steamer trunk. The effort made him groan.

“How’s LaBruzzo and them?” Armand said. “You know who I run across the other day? That big ugly rumpkin from Curley’s Gym. You remember him, muscles all over. I know you remember him. Guess who he works for now. I’ll tell you who. He …”

Armand glanced over and saw the gun in Barone’s hand. A .357 Blackhawk.

It took a beat for the gun to register. Then Armand’s face went flat, like a mask coming off. He stood back up.

“I sold you that,” Armand said. “Didn’t I? Threw in a box of .38 Short Colts.”

“A couple of years ago,” Barone said.

There were no cars on the road this time of night, and the shack was a long way from the next yard over. But Barone never took chances, not if he could help it. He decided to wait for a barge to pass and blow its horn.

“Just listen to me now, baby,” Armand said. “You barking up the wrong tree. Carlos is. I ain’t have no idea what this all about.”

He had one hand at his side and the other one on his belly, making slow circles. Barone wasn’t worried. Armand never carried a gun. The guns in the trunk were never loaded.

“Please,” Armand said. “I ain’t sold nothing to nobody. Whatever happened up there in Dallas, I ain’t got the first idea. Put me in front of Jesus Christ himself and I’ll swear it.”

So Armand did have an idea what this was about after all. Barone wasn’t surprised.

“Please, baby, you know I know how to keep my mouth shut,” Armand said. “Always have, always will. Let me talk to Carlos. Let me straighten him out.”

“You remember that big Christmas party at Mandina’s?” Barone said. “A couple of years after the war.”

“Yeah, sure,” Armand said. He couldn’t figure out why Barone was asking about a long-ago Christmas party. He couldn’t figure out why Barone hadn’t shot him yet. He was starting to think that he might have a chance. “Sure. Sure, I remember that party.”

Winter of ’46 or ’47. Barone had just gone to work for Carlos. He was living in a cold-water flat down the street from the Roosevelt Hotel.

“There was a piano player,” Barone said. He wondered if that Christmas party at Mandina’s was when he heard “’Round Midnight” the first time. “A piano player with a top hat.”

“And there was a Christmas tree,” Armand said. Nodding and grinning and finally giving in to hope, the sweet embrace of it. “That’s right. A big old Christmas tree with an angel on top.”

Barone thought about the old colored man playing “’Round Midnight” on his alto sax earlier, his fingers flying over the keys. Some people were born with a gift.

Finally a barge blew its horn, so loud and low that Barone felt the throb in his back teeth. He pulled the trigger.

A quarter of a mile east of Armand’s scrapyard, driving back to the bridge, Barone saw a car coming on, headed in the opposite direction. An old Hudson Commodore with a sunshade like the brim of a baseball cap.

Behind the wheel a woman. Barone’s headlights lit up her face as they passed. Her headlights lit up his.

He tapped the brakes and swung around. When he caught the Commodore, he flashed his headlights. The Commodore pulled onto the shoulder. Barone parked behind it. On his way to the driver’s window, he popped his switchblade and gave the back tire a quick jab.

“Damn it to hell, you scared me to death.” The woman had her hair up in curlers. Who was she? Why was she out here this time of night? Barone supposed it didn’t matter, the who or the why. “I thought you was the damn cops.”

“No,” he said.

She was missing a piece of a front tooth. Her smile was friendly. “The cops is the last thing in the damn world I need right now.”

“You’ve got a flat,” Barone said.

“Damn it. That’s the next-to-the-last thing in the world I need.”

“Come look.”

She climbed out of the car and came around to the back. She wore an old housecoat the color of dirty dishwater. When she heard the back tire hissing, she laughed.

“Well, if that ain’t the cherry on top of my sundae.” She laughed again. She had a nice laugh, like the cheerful jingle of coins in a pocket. “After the day I had, it’s the damn cat’s pajamas.”

“Open the trunk,” Barone said. “I’ll change it out for you.”

“My hero,” she said.

He checked to make sure the road was empty and then cut her throat, turning her a little so that she didn’t spill blood on his suit. After a minute she relaxed, like a silk dress slipping off a hanger. Barone just had to let her slide into the trunk of the car, no effort at all.

While everyone else gathered around the television in the living room, Charlotte inspected the dining table to see what she might have forgotten. She’d been awake since five-thirty that morning, baking and basting and grating and mincing. And last night she’d stayed up until almost midnight, polishing the silverware and ironing the Irish-lace tablecloth that Dooley’s parents had given them for their wedding.

Had she slept at all? She wasn’t entirely sure. At one point, lying on her back in the darkest hollow of the night, she’d felt the dog’s whiskery muzzle twitching close to her mouth, making sure she was still breathing.

Dooley’s mother, Martha, popped into the kitchen. “Need any help, Charlie?” she said.

“No thank you,” Charlotte said. “I’m just about ready.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Both Martha and Dooley’s father, Arthur, were lovely people, gracious and unfailingly kind. If Charlotte had left the silver unpolished, the tablecloth unironed, if she’d forgotten the rolls or the cranberry sauce, they would have made a point not to notice.

Which made it worse somehow. Charlotte wished that her in-laws were less gracious, less lovely. Better a pair of cruel snippers, icy snubbers, implacable adversaries she could never hope to appease. The searchingly earnest way Dooley’s father studied Charlotte, the way his mother would reach out, unprompted, to pat Charlotte’s hand—their pity, at times, was agonizing.

In the living room, the mood was hushed and grim. The television report showed a horse-drawn caisson bearing the president’s casket from the White House to the Capitol. A reporter broke in to confirm that Lee Harvey Oswald, who had been shot earlier that morning, was dead.

Charlotte saw that Joan and Rosemary had snuck back inside to watch the TV.