Recall Night, page 11
part #2 of An Eli Carver Supernatural Thriller Series
There’s nothing left to do but the job.
The house near Morristown, right by Dorset Hills School, is quiet as I drive by, Davey’s limo still in the driveway. I keep going, head around the block out of sight, then walk back, coming up on the blind side of the house. I’m hoping the neighbors aren’t paying attention as I slip along their driveway and hop a low fence into the back yard of the place where Bridget is being held. So far, so good. Crouching low in the shadows of some leafy shrubs, I case the back.
It looks real quiet.
My ghosts are wandering around the backyard, looking at the plants, a pond with goldfish in it. Michael strolls brazenly up to the kitchen window that looks out over the yard, cups his hands to peer in. Then he moves across to see in through some glass-paneled double doors.
He turns back to me and yells, “Place looks deserted.”
I’m still going to have to go in and make sure. Where the fuck are they?
Graney comes strolling across the lawn. “Dude, quit skulking about. Ain’t nobody here.”
I want to trust them, but I still don’t even know if they’re real. And they all want me dead, so it would be a huge laugh for them to convince me to stand up into a firefight. Then again, the place looks and feels dead.
I don’t chance it, but skirt the garden to sneak closer, then crouch under the kitchen windows and sidle along the wall. A quick peek shows inert dimness inside. The five assholes are standing around looking at me with smirks and derisive eyes as I scurry along to catch a glimpse in through the glass double doors.
“It’s a bust, cocheese. What now, huh?”
They’re right. I stand up, squint up to the windows of the first floor, half expecting someone to lean out and shoot me, but the place is deader than these five dickheads leering at me.
“Something there.” Michael points through the window.
I go back and lean in closer for a look. There’s a round pine breakfast table in the middle of the big kitchen and a piece of paper lays on it, stabbed into place with a bowie knife. That certainly is something.
Michael glances at me. “A trap?”
I shrug, past caring. Something is up here. The kitchen door has a window in the top half. I pick up a stone from the edge of the pond and launch it through, the crystalline rain onto the kitchen tiles starkly loud in the still morning. Reaching through I realize the door was already unlocked.
Graney barks another of his guttural laughs. “You’re fucking losing it, kid.”
He’s right too. Well, half-right. I’m not losing it, but I’m still groggy from the drugged air last night, and mildly concussed from the blow Alfie gave me. I need to get my shit together. I pull the knife out of the soft wood of the table and slip it into my jacket pocket. Might come in handy. The paper has large blocky hand-written letters.
Message from Mr. Lombardi
Situation Changed
If you happen to find yourself here turn on your fucking phone
Lips pursed, I realize I missed the deadline. I promised I’d call in by 7:00 am. and it’s nearly nine already. But what can I do about that?
“Here, fucker.”
Sly is standing by the kitchen counter next to the stove and there’s a selection of cables and chargers there. I find one that matches the phone Lombardi gave me. I plug it in and wait while it sucks in a base charge then boots up. Immediately it pings with messages.
You gonna call?
Then
I’m calling and you ain’t answering. Not good for you.
Then
You better call in, things have changed. The name Jerry Slovak mean anything to you?
My peanut gallery is gathered behind me reading over my shoulder. Alvin and Dwight both hoot with glee, Graney chuckles low in his ruined throat. Sly and Michael both shake their heads, lips pressed into a thin line.
That name does ring a bell, but why? Then it hits me and my stomach lurches, a cold pulse rippling out along my arms. That’s the name of the asshole Bridget worked for. The one she ripped off for over a hundred and twenty grand. Why the fuck does Lombardi know about him?
“Isn’t it obvious, dickwad?” Graney asks.
“He’s found her,” Michael says.
Of course they’re right. Shit. I hit the only number in the phone to dial Lombardi.
“So you finally got the fucking messages?”
I decide to play dumb, not let on that I’m at the Morristown house. “The phone ran out of battery, you didn’t give me a charger. I just managed to find one.”
“Sure, whatever. You need to be better.”
“What’s changed. Who’s Jerry Slovak?”
Lombardi laughs. “You know damn well who that is, and he’s only fucking my life up even more. Until you come in, I ain’t letting Bridget go with him. So you’d better get here, and you’d better have some good news for me.”
I don’t want Lombardi to let Bridget go with Slovak at all. And I’m sure it’s also the last thing she wants. “I have some news for you. I’ll head back to Bridgewater now.”
“No you won’t, because that ain’t where we are. You need to come to the Vesuvius Lounge.” He gives me an address in Newark. “And no funny business, you walk right up to the front door, the rest of the place is locked up tight. This situation needs resolving.”
Before I can say any more he hangs up. Well, okay then. I get the feeling we’re heading into some kind of endgame here. Whatever else happens, no way can I let Slovak leave with Bridget. Who knows what he’ll do to her.
“You’re on the back foot, cocheese.”
“No shit.”
Alvin dances stupidly. “You gonna get shot to shit in the Vesuvius Lounge!”
I shake my head. “Don’t be an asshole. Lombardi wants to know what I’ve learned.”
“He’s in control now,” Graney says, that self-satisfied grin glued in place. “What now, rōnin?”
Now I walk into the lion’s den and take my chances, I guess.
It doesn’t take long to drive to the address Lombardi gave me. I park across the street and walk right up to the doors, just like he said. Assuming there’s cameras all around the joint, I keep my hands in plain sight and wait. The door opens and Davey is there, looking out with narrowed eyes.
“Inside.” He tips his head like I wouldn’t be able to work out the way otherwise and I sigh and step past him.
There’s a small lobby, cash desk for patrons to pay entry, that leads directly into the wide-open space of the lounge. Clearly a place for pole dancers and asshole clientele, there’s a runway stage right through the middle, with three gleaming chrome poles evenly spaced along it. The stage is encircled by tables and chairs, none of them currently occupied. We’re obviously outside of business hours for the place. The lights are all on, giving the lounge that weird out-of-time feeling for a place designed to be seen with low lighting. There’s too much detail, like an old hooker without her makeup on. A bar runs the full length of the room on my left as I walk in, shadowy booths take up the other long wall. Davey’s hand lands on my shoulder. I stiffen, but pause, no doubt about to be frisked. Lombardi is standing farther in, about halfway along the elongated stage. There are seven more wise guys with him, all looking tense and twitchy. Lombardi’s face is tight, eyes narrowed as he stares at me. So that’s nine guys, but no sign of Bridget and Slovak.
Davey turns me and starts patting me down. He finds the two Glocks, the two spare mags, and the Bowie knife, puts them all on the end of the bar, then guides me in toward Lombardi. I stop halfway across the room, doing all I can to keep a lot of space around me.
“Where’s Bridget?”
The boss looks at me like I’m entirely made of shit. “You don’t get to ask any questions!”
“What, we’re enemies now? I thought we were working together on this.”
I see movement in one of the booths along the far wall. Michael is over there, pointing in. Bridget sits stiffly, lips pressed into a tense line. Someone else is opposite her, but I only see knees in gray flannel pants. That must be Slovak.
“What news do you have for me?”
I have little advantage here, but I’m not giving up what I do have. “Let’s just establish what the fuck is going on, shall we?”
“Shall we?” Lombardi’s eyebrows shoot up.
Slovak stands up out of the booth, dragging Bridget with him. She cries out in pain at his hard grip on her upper arm, face twisted in the closest thing I’ve seen to hate in a long time. Slovak is a classic slimeball, somewhere in his sixties, gray hair slicked back with product, gut stretching a yellow polo shirt. He has a thick gold chain around his neck and several oversized rings turning his ham fists into mini jewelry stores glistening with semi-precious stones.
“You think I couldn’t find her?” he asks me, like I’m the reason she ran away. Even now the dude is entirely underestimating Bridget and assuming me, the only man unaccounted for in his little world, must have been in charge.
“How did you find her?” I ask. I’m interested, but it’s also fun to watch Lombardi on the back foot as the situation slips from his control.
“She stole a lot of money from me, you think I’d let that go? I know people. I know everyone in the game. I ask around, show her picture, soon enough I start to track down the games she’s been into without my okay. That quickly leads me to one of Lombardi’s games, so I talk to people I know in Lombardi’s crew. Easy as that.” He grins, showing a gold tooth in his shit-eating face. He needed to tell me how easy it all was, to show what a big man he is. Thing is, if we hadn’t been caught up in the hit at Gino’s, the trail to Lombardi would be stone cold by now. Bridget would have cleared her debt and been long gone with the rest of Slovak’s money. Her bad luck was his good fortune, it had nothing to do with his skills or contacts. It occurs to me that Bridget has been suffering a run of bad luck, like she’s jinxed. She really deserves a break.
“Well, bully for you, motherfucker.” I give Slovak a smile back. “But you’re not leaving here with her.”
“Oh, is that right?” Slovak starts dragging Bridget across the lounge.
“Hold it a fucking minute!” Lombardi says, his voice high with anger. “No one goes anywhere or does anything until I say so. Carver, where the fuck is my wife?”
He’s trying to wrestle control of the situation, and who can blame him. But I plan to keep him off-center. “She’s dead.”
He actually steps back. I’ve never seen anyone physically taken aback before. “Dead?”
Whatever demands he expected, he never anticipated she’d be killed without any pressure. He clearly had no idea what was going on behind his back. But through all the haze and uncertainty about last night, one image is crystal clear. Papa Night slamming that knife into Cora’s chest, pulling her heart out and letting it pour blood over his face. I don’t want to speculate on anything else beyond the obvious. That woman is dead. “Yep. I saw her killed. Sorry about that.”
Lombardi is shaking his head, staring hard at me. “No, that ain’t it. That can’t be it.”
“You said I had to stay until this asshole came back,” Slovak says, dragging Bridget again. “He’s back, you two can sort out your own shit. I’m leaving, and Bridget’s coming with me.”
I catch Bridget’s eye and she stares hard at me, shakes her head subtly. The message is clear, don’t let him take me.
“Fine,” Lombardi says. “Whatever. You two fuck off.”
Slovak drags Bridget toward the door. Mayhem is imminent, but I can’t figure how it’s going to go down. I can’t let them leave. Lombardi is standing with seven guys across the room from me. Davey has moved a few yards away and is leaning against the bar. Slovak and Bridget are nearly at the doors. Bridget catches my eye, looks at the end of the bar, then back at me, popping one eyebrow. I give one decisive nod, the side of my mouth quirking up slightly. Here we go.
Bridget moves with the speed and grace of a ballet dancer. She steps away from Slovak, spinning as she goes to break his grip, and snatches one of the Glocks from the bar. Still turning, she slings it toward me in a flat spin. Her own momentum carries her on and she completes a full three-sixty and brings her hand around to crack Slovak in the side of the head. It’s a solid blow. He yelps and staggers, and I’m already moving.
I have no idea if she planned it this way, which would make her a hell of a pitcher, or if it was dumb luck, but the gun is flying a little forward and to the right of me. That works fine. I take two big strides then jump, turning in the air as I go. I snatch the Glock from the air as I come down onto the bar on one shoulder and slide across it. From my peripheral vision I see Bridget bring her knee up into Slovak’s groin hard enough to lift him onto his toes. He squeals like a stuck pig, then my attention is drawn away as my eye targets.
Lombardi’s crew are all going for weapons and I squeeze off two shots. One hits a mook dead center of his chest and he flies back over the narrow stage like someone yanked on a rope behind him. My second shot goes wide as the bar runs out below me and I drop behind it onto the hard floor. My brain automatically starts the count. Including Slovak, there’s ten fuckers I need to kill. I shot one, and now there’s fifteen rounds left in the Glock.
Nine fuckers and fifteen rounds is a little off one-point-five rounds per fucker. Tight, but feasible.
Breath rushes out of me as I land on my back but I don’t pause, driving my heels against the ground to slide away from where I landed. Sure enough, Davey leans over pointing his own weapon at exactly where I was half a second before. As his eyes track up from there to where I am now, a couple of yards away and moving backwards, I put a bullet through his head. Blood sprays out behind him as he slumps out of sight.
Eight fuckers and fourteen rounds remaining.
I immediately switch one-eighty and start driving my heels to slide the way I came. Any of those guys seeing Davey drop will have pinpointed my position if they have any brains. I can only hope they’ll assume I’m heading for the door. It would be the smart thing to do. But I need Bridget to head for the door. If nothing else comes of this except Bridget getting away before Slovak can swallow his balls back down, that’ll be enough. She’ll have to scratch around and start over, but she’ll be free at least.
Slovak’s high-pitched wails start to tail off and I can only hope he’s still grounded, rocking in silent agony. Lombardi and his six remaining mooks are my main concern. I need to not be trapped behind this bar, I’m a fish in a barrel here. That means taking a chance.
Before any of them can get a look over, I roll over and hurry, hunched down, all the way to the other end, furthest from the doors I came in by. There’s a closed office right near me, but no point going that way. I spring up, shoulder roll over bar, Glock held out double-handed in front of me. Even as I turn I’m scanning the room and see the crew have fanned out. Makes sense for them, and bad for me. I squeeze off three fast shots as I land on my feet and run for the end of the long stage for cover. One mook goes down, a new hole right through his cheek, teeth spinning into the air as he drops. Another takes a hit in the left shoulder and my third goes wide.
Seven fuckers, one wounded, and eleven rounds remaining.
As I drop down behind the stage, bullets crack and whine all around me, the crew letting fly. But I saw Lombardi heading for the doors, the chickenshit making a break for it. The stage is about four feet high, gives me plenty of cover as I move around it. I stay close and low, remembering the spread of the crew as best I can, then pop up for another volley. Three fast shots and three targets hit. For all their smarts, they didn’t keep moving, and I’m warming into the game. One loses his face, another takes a hit dead center of his chest, and the third bends over a gut shot. He drops his gun as he gags and falls to his knees. The one I hit in the chest was the one with the shoulder wound.
Four fuckers left, eight rounds remaining. The odds are getting better.
But Lombardi is almost at the doors now. The gut-shot guy isn’t dead, lowing like a cow giving birth as he writhes. I saw Slovak, face twisted in pain, dragging himself for the cover of the bar. Bridget was nowhere to be seen.
I hide behind the stage and double back, heading toward the bar. The two remaining crew are my main concern. As I round the end of the stage, I come face to face with one of them, running this way to cut me off. Damn it. His eyes pop wide and he fires just as I drop and sweep my leg around. Fire burns across my left shoulder, right along the shoulder blade from where I was hunched over, but I ignore it. My sweeping foot meets his ankles and he upends, sits hard on the cement floor with a crack of splitting tailbone. His face scrunches in pain, but already I’ve grabbed his head. I jam my gun under his chin and fire, leaning back from the spray as he jerks and arcs over.
Three fuckers, seven rounds remaining.
“Don’t shoot!” That’s Lombardi’s voice, high and terrified.
I chance a glimpse over the stage and see Lombardi stopped by the doors, Bridget standing at the end of the bar with the other Glock leveled at him. Slovak is on the ground halfway between them, looking left and right, panicked. The last remaining mook glances back at his boss and that’s all I need. I stand all the way up and fire, blowing out the back of his head. He pitches forward and rag-dolls to the ground.
Two fuckers left, Lombardi and Slovak, one grounded, the other under aim, and I still have six rounds. Nice work, Bridget. She didn’t bolt after all, must have dived for cover at the bar after she dropped Slovak.
I level my gun at Lombardi. “Walk back toward me,” I tell him. “Hands where I can see them.” Craven piece of shit didn’t even pull his weapon, just ran and left his boys to it. I wonder if this was all that remained of his family. Seems I did Andretti’s dirty work for him after all.
Lombardi lifts his hands and walks slowly back into open space halfway between me and Bridget. She nods at me and lowers her gun.
