Killshot

  ELMORE

  LEONARD

  KILLSHOT

  Dedication

  For Greg Sutter

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapters:

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  The Extras

  About the Author

  Praise and Acclaim

  Other Books

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  * * *

  THE BLACKBIRD TOLD HIMSELF he was drinking too much because he lived in this hotel and the Silver Dollar was close by, right downstairs. Try to walk out the door past it. Try to come along Spadina Avenue, see that goddamn Silver Dollar sign, hundreds of light bulbs in your face, and not be drawn in there. Have a few drinks before coming up to this room with a ceiling that looked like a road map, all the cracks in it. Or it was the people in the Silver Dollar talking about the Blue Jays all the time that made him drink too much. He didn’t give a shit about the Blue Jays. He believed it was time to get away from here, leave Toronto and the Waverley Hotel for good and he wouldn’t drink so much and be sick in the morning. Follow one of those cracks in the ceiling.

  The phone rang. He listened to several rings before picking up the receiver, wanting it to be a sign. He liked signs. The Blackbird said, “Yes?” and a voice he recognized asked would he like to go to Detroit. See a man at a hotel Friday morning. It would take him maybe two minutes.

  In the moment the voice on the phone said “Detroi-it” the Blackbird thought of his grandmother, who lived near there, and began to see himself and his brothers with her when they were young boys and thought, This could be a sign. The voice on the phone said, “What do you say, Chief?”

  “How much?”

  “Out of town, I’ll go fifteen.”

  The Blackbird lay in his bed staring at the ceiling, at the cracks making highways and rivers. The stains were lakes, big ones.

  “I can’t hear you, Chief.”

  “I’m thinking you’re low.”

  “All right, gimme a number.”

  “I like twenty thousand.”

  “You’re drunk. I’ll call you back.”

  “I’m thinking this guy staying at a hotel, he’s from here, no?”

  “What difference is it where he’s from?”

  “You mean what difference is it to me. I think it’s somebody you don’t want to look in the face.”

  The voice on the phone said, “Hey, Chief? Fuck you. I’ll get somebody else.”

  This guy was a punk, he had to talk like that. It was okay. The Blackbird knew what this guy and his people thought of him. Half-breed tough guy one time from Montreal, maybe a little crazy, they gave the dirty jobs to. If you took the jobs, you took the way they spoke to you. You spoke back if you could get away with it, if they needed you. It wasn’t social, it was business.

  He said, “You don’t have no somebody else. You call me when your people won’t do it. I’m thinking that tells me the guy in the hotel—I wonder if it’s the old guy you line up to kiss his hand. Guy past his time, he don’t like how you do things.”

  There was a silence on the line before the voice said, “Forget it. We never had this conversation.”

  See? He was a punk. The Blackbird said, “I never kiss his hand or any part of him. What do I care?”

  “So, you want it?”

  “I’m thinking,” the Blackbird said, staring at the ceiling, “you have a Cadillac, that blue one.” It was the same vivid light-blue color as his grandmother’s cottage on Walpole Island. “What is it, about a year old?”

  “About that.”

  So it was two years old, or three. That was okay, it looked good and it was the right color.

  “All right, you give me that car, we have a deal.”

  “Plus the twenty?”

  “Keep it. Just the car.”

  This guy would be telling his people, see, he’s crazy. You can give him trading beads, a Mickey Mouse watch. But said over the phone, “If that’s what you want, Chief.” The voice gave him the name of the hotel in Detroit and the room number, a suite on the sixty-fourth floor, and told him it would have to be done the day after tomorrow, Friday around nine-thirty, give or take a few minutes. The old man would be getting dressed or reading the sports, he was in town for the ball game, Jays and the Tigers. Walk in and walk out.

  “I know how to walk out. How do I get in?”

  “He has a girl with him, the one he sees when he’s there. It’s arranged for her to let you in.”

  “Yeah? What do I do with her?”

  The voice on the phone said, “Whatever your custom allows, Chief.” Confident now; listen to him. “What else can I tell you?”

  The Blackbird hung up the phone and stared at the ceiling again, picking out a crack that could be the Detroit River among stains he narrowed his eyes to see as the Great Lakes. Ontario, Erie, Lake Huron . . .

  His name was Armand Degas, born in Montreal. His mother was Ojibway, his father he didn’t remember, French-Canadian. Both were dead. Until eight years ago he had lived and worked with his two brothers. The younger one was dead and the older one was in prison forever. Armand Degas was fifty years old. He had lived in Toronto most of his life, but didn’t know if he should stay here. He could go downstairs to the Silver Dollar and after a while feel pretty good. There was a bunch of Ojibway that hung out there. Maybe he looked like some of them with his thick body and his thick black hair lacquered back hard with hair spray. They’d talk, but he could tell they were afraid of him. Also there were more punks coming in there, crazy ones who colored their hair pink and green; he didn’t like the way they called him the Blackbird, the way they said it. The Italians, most of the time, called him Chief. It was like they could call him anything they wanted, the guineas posing in their expensive clothes, talking with their hands. Even if they said he could be a made guy, one of them, he wouldn’t ever belong to them. When the phone rang he had been trying to figure out why he drank so much. He was thinking now, as he began to picture a young girl in the the hotel room in Detroit, he drank because he needed to drink.

  The girl would be young and very pretty. It was the kind they found for the old man. She’d be scared. Even if they told her, you open the door, that’s all you have to do, and gave her some money, she’d be scared to death. He wondered if the old man would notice it. You didn’t become old in his business missing signs. He wondered if he should wear his suit to go into that hotel. It was tight on him when he buttoned the coat. He’d drive to Detroit in the Cadillac . . . and began to think about his grandmother, trying to picture her now, older than the old man he was going to see. They called him Papa, a guy who’d had his way a long time, but no more. The Blackbird saw himself drive up to the blue cottage in the matching Cadillac and saw his grandmother come out . . . Then saw a young girl in a hotel room again, scared to death.

  But when the girl opened the door she didn’t seem scared at all. She was about eighteen maybe, wearing a robe, with long blond hair down over her shoulders like a little girl. Except her expression wasn’t a little girl’s. She looked him over and walked away and was going into the bedroom as he entered the suite and saw the room-service table
and what was left of breakfast. The bedroom door was open. He could hear her voice saying something—that nice-looking young girl, not the kind he had expected. The Blackbird glanced at the bedroom but didn’t see either of them. He walked past the room-service table to the room’s wide expanse of windows filled with an overcast sky. Now he was looking at Canada from six hundred feet in the air; Windsor, Ontario, across the river, Toronto two hundred and fifty miles beyond. Not straight across but more east, that way, where the Detroit River turned into Lake St. Clair. Keep going and you come to Walpole Island. Staring in that direction he squinted into the distance. A sound behind him made him turn.

  The old man they called Papa, head bent, showing the straight part in his white hair combed flat, was pouring himself a cup of coffee. He stood at the room-service table with a bath towel wrapped high around his waist, white against tan skin, almost to his chest: this man who always dressed in style, a gold pin fixed to his shirt collar, always with a tan. But look how frail he was, dried up, aged in the sun. A bird could perch on his shoulder blades, hop to his collarbone.

  Now a shower was turned on. In there beyond the open bedroom door. The girl giving him privacy.

  “Papa?”

  The old man looked up. Surprised and then frowning with the windows in his eyes: the same way he had looked when a government commission, the one investigating organized crime in Canada, asked him what he did for a living and the old man said he was in the pepperoni business, he sold it to places they made pizza.

  He said with his heavy accent and a note of hope, “You got something for me?”

  “From your son-in-law.”

  The old man’s hope left him as he said, “Oh, Christ,” sounding tired. He looked down at the room-service table but seemed to have forgotten what he wanted. He stared for several moments before looking up. “I told my daughter don’t marry that guy, he’s a punk. She don’t listen. I’ll give him six months, they gonna be another funeral.”

  The Blackbird said, “You want him done sooner than that, tell me.” He saw the old man staring at him, frowning again, and he said, “You don’t know who I am?”

  “I can’t see you,” the old man said, coming around the table, one hand gripping the towel, the fingers of his other hand touching the edge of the table. He seemed so small, his bones showing, his eyes, as they looked up, tired and moist. He said, “Yes, of course,” and seemed to shrug as he moved close to the window.

  The Blackbird watched the old man staring at the beginning of Ontario reaching out beyond the city and across open land to the sky.

  “You know Walpole Island, Papa?” The Blackbird pointed upriver. “It’s that way past the lake, on the Canadian side of the channel. The big ships go by there, up the St. Clair River to Lake Huron and around through Lake Superior, go to places over there, and back again till the ice comes. Walpole Island, it’s an Indian reserve where my grandmother lives.”

  The old man took his time to look up at him, patient, not going anywhere, making these moments last.

  “She’s Ojibway, same as me. You know what else? She’s a medicine woman. She was going to turn me into an owl one time, I said to her, ‘I don’t want to be no owl, I want to be a blackbird,’ and that’s how I got this name. From my brothers, when we were boys and we visited there.”

  The old man was staring out again and seemed off in his mind.

  “You remember us, the Degas brothers? One dead working for you, shot dead by the police. One in Kingston doing life for you. Papa, you listening to me? And I’m here.”

  “Can she do that,” the old man said, “turn you into an owl?”

  “If she wants to. Listen, when we went there in the summer when we were boys, we had a twenty-two rifle, a single-shot we used, go in the marsh and hunt for muskrats. See, but we hardly ever found any, so on the way home to her house we’d shoot at dogs, you know, cats, birds. Man, it got people mad, but they wouldn’t say nothing. You know why? They were afraid the grandmother would do something to them.”

  The old man was listening. He said, “Turn them into something they don’t want. How does she do that?”

  “She has a drum she beats on and sings in Ojibway, so I don’t know what she saying,” the Blackbird said. “Imagine a day you don’t even see the trees move. She beats on the drum and sings and a wind comes in under the door and stirs the fire in the fireplace. She wants to, she can burn a house down. Or like if you do something to her and she gets mad? She can get a bird to shit on your car. She does it best with seagulls. A seagull flies over, she beats on the drum, points to the car. That one. The seagull shits on the hood, on the windshield. Or she can get a whole flock of them to do it, all over the car. I’m going to go see her. Drive up there, you take the ferry over from Algonac, a half-mile across the St. Clair River from the U.S. side to Walpole Island.”

  The old man’s head was nodding as he thought of something and said, “I could use a woman like that. Have her turn me into a blue jay.” He smiled, showing his perfect dentures. “Those fucking Jays, they gonna do it this year, go all the way to the World Series. I’ll give you five to three. I don’t care who they play. We going tonight, see them beat the Tigers.” The old man paused. He turned and looked up with his tired eyes. “No, I’m gonna go in there, put on my robe . . .” He paused again. “No, I think I like to be dressed. Is that okay with you?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  The old man walked toward the bedroom saying, “That fucking son-in-law, I never like that guy.”

  The Blackbird gave him time. He stepped to the room-service table and poured a cup of coffee. It was barely warm. He ate a croissant with it and two strips of cold bacon he believed the girl had ordered and didn’t eat. What did she care, she wasn’t paying for it. She had taken one bite out of each half piece of toast. He could hear the shower running. There was a Coca-Cola bottle on the table and a glass half full she had left, wasting it, not caring.

  It was warm in here and he was uncomfortable in his wool suit, a black one, double-breasted, he wore with a white shirt and green-blue tie that had little green fish on it. A Browning 380 automatic, stuck in his waist at the small of his back, dug into his spine. It was a relief to pull it out. The Blackbird worked the slide to rack a cartridge into the chamber. The pistol was ready to fire and he believed he was ready. But now his pants felt loose and he had to adjust them to stick his shirt in good and straighten his tie and button his coat before going into the bedroom. He had to feel presentable. It was something he did for himself; no one else would think about how he looked, notice the suit was too tight for him and needed to be pressed. The old man wouldn’t care.

  The old man wouldn’t even see him. He was lying on the unmade bed in a starched white shirt and tan trousers, brown shoes and socks, hands folded on his chest, his eyes closed.

  The shower was running in the bathroom, the door open a few inches.

  The Blackbird brought the sheet up over the old man’s body all the way, covering his face. Now he was looking at the outline of the face and saw the sheet move as the old man breathed in, sucking the white cloth flat against his mouth. That was where the Blackbird placed the muzzle of the Browning and shot him. He fired once. The sound filled the room and maybe it was heard on the other side of the wall in another room, or maybe not. It was sudden; if anyone heard it and said what was that and stopped to listen, there was nothing else to hear.

  Only the shower running in the bathroom.

  When he pulled the shower curtain aside the girl with long blond hair, the hair darker now, her face and body glistening wet, looked at him and said, “Are you through?”

  The Blackbird said, “Not yet,” raising the pistol, and watched the girl’s expression finally change.

  * * *

  The last time he came to Walpole Island was nine years ago, with his two brothers. They had finished some business in Sarnia for the Italians and drove down through Wallaceburg and across the bridge. That way, it wasn’t like coming
to an island.

  This time he came from Algonac, Michigan, on the U.S. side, drove over the metal plates from the nine-car ferry to the dock and pulled up in the Cadillac to tell the customs guy he used to live here when he was a boy and had come back. He followed the road south along the ship channel where he and his brothers used to throw stones at the freighters going by. They had seemed so close in the channel, those ore carriers sliding past forever without a sound. This was when their mother would send them here from Toronto, in the summer. Once they swam the channel to Harsens Island on the U.S. side, maybe a quarter of a mile, and his brother now in Kingston for life had almost drowned.

  Then he and his brothers didn’t come again till they were grown men: came to visit because they were nearby, that time in Sarnia, and stayed to repaint the blue cottage and fix some leaks in the roof. The cottage was damp and smelled, full of mice the Degas brothers caught in glue traps they got at the A & P in Algonac. The traps held the mice by their feet in a sticky substance; or sometimes the mouse’s face would be stuck in it. The brothers would carry the traps outside, the mice still alive, and shoot them with their high-caliber pistols. Bam, that mouse would be gone, disappear, and the Degas brothers would look at each other and grin like they were young boys again shooting at dogs and cats. The grandmother, getting old, had watched them but didn’t say much or work any kind of medicine.

  This time, when he came to the cottage, it seemed deeper in the trees, its blue paint faded and peeling, its plywood storm shutters down covering the windows, the yard overgrown with weeds.

  The woman at Island Variety, across the road from the ferry dock, said yes, the grandmother was in the cemetery, buried last winter. The woman said the Band office didn’t know what to do about the house or the furniture, all the grandmother’s things. Armand Degas told her he’d take care of it and turned away, not wanting to talk to this woman in the noise of kids playing video games, Breakout and Zaxxon. There were other people too. Some duck hunters in the store were buying candy bars and potato chips, talking loud to each other. Their cars with Michigan plates were parked outside where Walpole guides waited smoking cigarettes. They had stopped talking as Armand walked by them, coming in. They knew who he was.