Killshot Page 8

  Carmen turned to the sink, rinsed her hands and dried them on a dish towel, the phone still ringing. Sometimes she’d pick it up and say, “Hi, Mom.”

  But not today. Carmen looked out the window as she lifted the receiver from the hook and didn’t say a word.

  She saw something move in the woods. Not the far deep woods, where Wayne grew his row of corn along the edge and had placed the salt lick, but in the thicket beyond the chickenhouse, where a section of woods came down close to the backyard. She was pretty sure a man was standing in there, in the tangle of dense branches; not at the edge but back in the gloom, his form blending, most of him concealed. Lenore’s voice was saying, “Carmen?” Repeating it. “Carmen, what are you doing?”

  Whoever it was just stood there, not moving.

  Carmen said, “Hi, Mom.”

  She didn’t say anything about it to Wayne, not right away. He came home—it was on her mind as she got dinner ready and Wayne opened beers for them and phoned Lionel. No answer. Two days now, no one home. Carmen said didn’t they have relatives in Ohio they went to visit? Wayne said, “In duck season?”

  During the week Carmen would turn on the TV in the kitchen and they’d watch Jeopardy while they ate dinner, sitting at the counter. Wayne was good at state capitals, country music, some history, because it was all he read outside of hunting magazines, and wars. His favorite was the Civil War. Carmen was good at popular music and groups, movie stars who had won Academy Awards and biology. Carmen would get more right than Wayne. Jeopardy was on now. Some of the categories were Art, Bowling, Four-letter Words and Kings Named Ed. But they weren’t paying much attention to it. Carmen listened to Wayne saying he wondered if he should go over to Walpole, check up on Lionel.

  Wayne saying he liked the One-Fifty Jefferson project, he knew most of the guys on the raising gang and the walking boss was an old buddy. One of the connectors got a bunch of flowers with a card signed by five women who’d been watching him from an office building. Wayne saying he was bolting up and doing some welding, but that was okay, it was the kind of story job he liked, put it straight up in the air three hundred feet and go on to the next one. Wayne saying the meat loaf was the best he’d ever tasted. Then going on to say he could never understand why Matthew didn’t like it. How could you not like meat loaf?

  Carmen, waking up, said, “Oh, we got a letter today.”

  Wayne gave her a funny look, because a rare letter from Matthew would be sitting right here on the counter. Carmen had to find it, over in a drawer where she filed letters and bills.

  Wayne began to read the letter from their son. Carmen took a bite of meat loaf—it was okay but she’d made better—played with her peas and carrots, looked up at the window and saw the kitchen reflected on the glass, the portable TV screen a bright spot. One of the Jeopardy contestants had picked the Kings Named Ed category. Something about one of them being a saint and the contestant, a woman, said, “Who was Edward the Confessor?”

  Just as Wayne said, “Everything’s initials with him now. The A-7Es, the AE-6Bs. He isn’t on a carrier, he’s on a CVN. Here, he says, ‘My new job is to make sure the nosegear towbar engages the catapult shuttle and then stand clear. You don’t want to get caught between the aircraft and the JBD.’ What’s the JBD?”

  “The jet blast deflector,” Carmen said.

  “Well, what’s FOD? He says, ‘We police the flight deck for anything lying around that might cause an aircraft to FOD-out.’ “

  “Foreign object damage,” Carmen said. “I guess something that might get sucked into the jet engine.”

  It seemed to irritate Wayne.

  “How do you know that?”

  “It was in the book he sent, Supercarriers in Action.”

  “I haven’t read it yet.”

  The woman contestant on Jeopardy was running the Kings Named Ed category, answering one, “Where is the Tower of London?” in the form of a question, as you were supposed to. The woman was the smartest Jeopardy contestant Carmen had ever seen.

  She said, “Mom called this afternoon.”

  Wayne looked up from Matthew’s letter. “To brighten your day. Asked what you were fixing for dinner, you told her meat loaf and she said leave the Tabasco out, we’re ruining our stomachs.”

  “She said to be sure to add milk.”

  “I bet she asked about your dad, what’s new with him.”

  “She hinted around.”

  “Hoping to hear his liver had finally got him. Guy’s down in Tampa happier’n a pig in shit. She’s up here drinking her vodka and grapefruit juice, thinking of ways to be miserable. How’s her back?”

  “The same. She bends over, it’s like somebody sticks a redhot poker in her.”

  “I better not say anything,” Wayne said and returned to the letter. After a moment he said, “I like this part. Matthew says, ‘The steam pressure it takes to catapult a thirty-ton aircraft off the flight deck would send a pickup truck five miles out over the ocean.’ Now something like that I can picture. Then he talks about steam building up in the ‘below-deck accumulators.’ How’s a kid like Matthew know that? He’s nineteen years old.”

  “He’s grown up,” Carmen said. “You were working when you were his age.”

  “He says, ‘Hoping your days are CAVU and all is well.’ You think he’s overdoing it a little? What’s CAVU?”

  “Ceiling and visibility unlimited.”

  “You know what it is? Being on a new job. You use all the words, like you know what you’re talking about. Matthew’s out there on his CVN with that JBD and the FODs on a CAVU kind of day.”

  “Somebody was in the woods,” Carmen said, “this afternoon. I looked out, it was when I was talking to Mom.”

  Wayne said, “Well, that could be,” and paused. “You didn’t see who it was.”

  Carmen shook her head. “There might even’ve been two, I’m not sure.”

  “You say while you were talking to your mom.”

  “I didn’t mention it to her.”

  “No, I don’t imagine you would. But how come you wait till now to tell me?”

  “I was going to right away, but then . . . I don’t know, it didn’t seem that important anymore. They might’ve been hunters.”

  “It’s the duck season, honey. There aren’t any ducks in the woods. Were they just, maybe walking through?”

  “It was more like they were trying to stay hidden, watching the house. That was the feeling I had.”

  “I don’t see how it could be those two guys, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “No, I don’t either.”

  “They might like to run into me sometime, but they’re not gonna hang around on the off chance, with the police looking for them. Or so they say.”

  Carmen said, “How could they know where we live?”

  “They couldn’t, there’s no way they could find out.”

  She saw Wayne thinking about it as he finished his dinner. On Jeopardy the contestants were getting ready for the hardest part, Final Jeopardy.

  “Unless,” Wayne said, “that one, the Indian, remembers me talking to Lionel and goes to see him. Hey, but Lionel’s away someplace. I don’t know where, but he sure as hell isn’t home.”

  “It probably wasn’t anybody,” Carmen said. “Just some guy. I’m not gonna worry about it.”

  “No, they’d be pretty dumb to hang around.”

  Carmen didn’t say anything. They were showing the Final Jeopardy question now. She looked at it, then at Wayne as he slid off the kitchen stool and went over to the closet where he kept his hunting gear, his shotguns, boxes of ammunition, coats, boots, lures, old copies of hunting magazines. She could see him in there with the light on.

  “Hon, what are two adjacent states, one’s a Spanish word, the other’s Indian and they both mean red, the color?”

  She was pretty sure the states were Colorado and Utah.

  Wayne came out of the closet holding his Remington 870 fitted with the shorte
r slug barrel. He said, “Colorado and Oklahoma,” crossing to the door. He stood the shotgun next to it, against the wall.

  Carmen said, “I think it’s Colorado and Utah.”

  That was what the smartest woman she had ever seen on Jeopardy also thought, and they were both wrong. The states were Colorado and Oklahoma.

  It surprised Carmen. Still, she felt good about it, smiling as she said, “How’d you know that?”

  “I went bird shooting down there one time,” Wayne said. “Remember?”

  “Knowing my love of corrections,” Donna had said to Richie Nix more than once and in different ways, “for them to treat me the way they did, I have lost all respect for our prison system.”

  He told the Bird she was always going on about it. It convinced Richie they could trust Donna. At least tell her where they got the van. The Bird said no.

  “She’s confused,” Richie said. “We drive off Saturday in a Cadillac, come back that night in a Dodge van wearing hunting outfits.” Camouflaged coats and caps, all green and brown with a little black.

  The Bird said, “Let her be confused.”

  “Yeah, but we don’t want her pissed off at us.”

  The Bird said, “You don’t tell a woman use to wear a state uniform your business.”

  He didn’t get it.

  “That’s the whole point of what I’m saying,” Richie said, “she knows my business. She knows I got felony warrants out on me. It don’t matter to her, she spent her life with guys like me. Man, she’s a fucking convict groupie. We stay friendly with her, we have a nice little place to hide out. But we hurt her feelings, that’ll piss her off. Bird? You understand?”

  The Bird said, “Don’t call me Bird no more.”

  That stopped Richie, confused him. “You said they call you the Blackbird.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Well, what am I suppose to call you?”

  “My name, Armand.”

  “Armand? You serious?”

  They had been having their differences the past couple of days. It had taken that long to locate the ironworker’s house, the address in the phone book listed as a rural route number. They had to scout the place then. The Bird’s idea, leave the van on a back road and cut through the woods like a couple of hunters, sneak up on the house from behind. Okay, they had done that. Stood in wet weeds and bushes in their camie outfits—there was the house, there was a Cutlass and a boat with an outboard on a trailer in the garage, but no pickup truck. Which meant the ironworker wasn’t home and the Bird would not go up to the house till he knew both the guy and his wife were in there. Richie liked the idea of walking into the house, take care of the woman and wait for the guy to get home. Surprise him, we’re sitting there. The Bird had said, “Take care of the woman, ‘ey? You think you can do it?” Still bringing it up. The Bird didn’t like the idea of walking in, he said, because somebody they didn’t expect could come along while they were in the house. Maybe cops. These people would have talked to the cops, no? What if the cops stopped by to ask them some more questions? Anything Richie wanted to do, the Bird was against it. Now he had a faggy name he wanted to be called, Armand.

  They were in Donna’s living room under the pictures of guards, cons and prison officials: Richie and Armand sitting with their drinks among the stuffed animals, Armand fooling with Mr. Froggy’s button eyes; while Donna prepared her gourmet frozen chow, banging pans out in the kitchen so they’d know she was there.

  Richie said, “Armand?” Jesus Christ, he felt weird saying it. “You notice she’s not talking to us? When she makes all that fucking noise like that it means she’s getting pissed off. I don’t want her to do nothing dumb.”

  The Bird, Armand, said, “Pimpslap a woman, you want to keep her in line.”

  “Now that would really set her off.”

  “If she don’t know better,” Armand said, “she’s in trouble.”

  Man, this guy was from some other fucking world. “Armand,” Richie said, “you’re not married, are you?”

  “No way.”

  “You ever live with a woman? I mean outside of your family?”

  “What’s the point?”

  “Armand, lemme tell you something. You’re always telling me something, now it’s my turn. Okay, Armand.” If he kept saying the name it would get easier. “You might’ve shot a woman or two in your line of work. . . . Have you?”

  “Go on what you’re gonna tell me.”

  “Let’s say you have. But shooting a woman and understanding a woman are two entirely different things, man. I’ve lived with women in foster homes and women since then.” Richie dropped his voice to add, “I might even still be married, I’m not sure, she got scared and took off on me. That’s okay, a woman being scared. But don’t ever let ’em get pissed off at you if you can help it. First thing, they’ll stop talking to you. Like her out there. You give them any more cause, then look out. A woman won’t ever come at you, they got other ways. Put ground-up glass in your chow. Pour gasoline on you while you’re sleeping and set you afire. I know guys it’s happened to. The least thing they can do is tell on you, that’s too fucking easy. Donna knows I got a sheet six feet long besides warrants from here to Kentucky. She can make a case anytime she wants. But, see, that don’t worry me. What does is the sneaky shit she’s liable to pull, say her feelings get hurt. What I’m telling you, Armand, you have to keep a woman thinking you give a shit what she thinks.”

  Armand said, “So you don’t trust her.”

  “Man, I just got done explaining it to you. I don’t have to worry do I trust her, long as she trusts me.”

  The Indian took time to finish his whiskey before saying, “What do you want to tell her?” Not sounding so goddamn sure of himself now.

  Richie felt he had him. He said, “Watch,” and called, “Hey, Donna? Fix us up here, will you?”

  There she was, looking like a cartoon spider with her skinny legs and arms and that big butt sticking out. She took their glasses out to the kitchen and returned with fresh drinks filled with ice, checking them now to tell which was which, handing the darker one to Richie, the Southern and Seven, their eyes meeting but he didn’t say anything to her, not yet. He knew the Indian was watching all this, watching Donna now coming to him on the sofa, giving him his whiskey, but not even a glance, serious in her hairdo and ornamental glasses. Richie waited until she turned to leave.

  “Donna?”

  She stopped and said, “What?” but didn’t turn around.

  “I want to tell you something. You know the van?”

  Donna said, “Yeah?”

  “I swiped it.”

  Donna came around about halfway.

  “Over in Windsor, at the airport,” Richie said. “This blonde was sitting in the van waiting on somebody? After while out come this colored guy must’ve been seven feet tall, from the terminal. The blonde gets out, she has this real short skirt on, runs up and jumps in his arms and they give each other a big kiss, his hands holding her butt. Then this other seven-foot jig appears, she runs up to him. They stand talking a minute and the three of them go in the airport, I figured to get the two jigs’s bags. Soon as they went inside I hopped in the van and took off.” Richie frowned a little, staring at Donna. “I couldn’t help it, seeing this cute little girl waiting on those seven-foot jigs.”

  Donna said, “What happened to your chin?”

  “I got in a fight.”

  “With the colored boys?”

  “No, was way before. Guy got smart with me.”

  “Well, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Donna said, “What happened to his car?” Meaning the Indian’s, but not looking at him.

  “It broke down. We had to leave it for repairs.”

  “So you decided it was all right to take that van?”

  “I’m not gonna hurt it,” Richie said. “We’ll use it, do a little hunting, then I’ll leave it someplace.”

  Donna said, “Di
d you want the Weight Watchers chicken patty or the regular?”

  Richie grinned. “Who, me? Come on.”

  “What about him?”

  “Give the Bird a double Weight Watchers.”

  He waited till Donna left them and was in the kitchen before looking over at his partner. “I did see that happen one time, not over in Windsor, it was out at Detroit Metro. Yeah, this cute girl picks up these two giant colored guys. I guess basketball players. You wonder how those people got so tall.” Richie noticed the Indian looking toward the kitchen.

  “She believe that story?”

  “Who, Donna? She knows it’s close to the truth if it ain’t right on. She’ll ask me some more questions later. Like sneak up and try and catch me. Hey, but what you do now, Bird, I mean Armand, go in there and give her a little pat on the ass. Show her we’re all friends here.”

  8

  * * *

  RICHIE HAD STOLEN THE VAN so he was the driver now. It gave Armand the feeling he was along for the ride, that he was losing his hold on this punk who drove too fast and didn’t keep his eyes on the road. They were dressed as hunters, on their way to see the ironworker and his wife. Four days had passed since their visit to the real estate office. And there it was, Richie slowing down as they approached the big house on the river road, crept past, Richie hunched over the wheel to look at the upstairs window.

  “You think he’s in there?”

  Armand didn’t answer.

  “If I knew for sure he was I’d walk in, go right up to his office. That’d be a kick, wouldn’t it? See his face?”

  Armand still didn’t answer. He was thinking that either one of his brothers would look Richie over and say, “What are you doing with this guy? He’s a punk.” His dead brother would say, “Guy tries to steal your car, you don’t do nothing to him?” His brother in prison would say, “You don’t leave him out on the road, keep going?” Try to explain it to them. Well, the deal looked pretty good. His brothers, either one, would say, “Yeah? It did, ‘ey? With this guy?” It would be the same as if they saw him in the Silver Dollar with his arm around an ugly woman, buying her drinks. It wouldn’t matter how drunk he was.