Recall Night, page 2
part #2 of An Eli Carver Supernatural Thriller Series
She shrugs. “Of course. Take your time, there’s no rush.”
And then the shit hits the fan.
I see Michael’s face drop, his eyes and mouth go wide looking behind me and I react instinctively, pulling Bridget aside into the corner. Graney, Alvin, and Sly rock back in their chairs laughing, and Dwight is suddenly right there.
“You’re a dead fucker now, cocheese!” He dances a jig like an idiot.
The restaurant door slams back and two dudes with submachine guns fill the space. The roar is deafening as they open fire. Lombardi is fast, dropping behind the table, and I don’t know if he’s hit or not. The top of Stevie’s head vaporizes in a red mist that spatters over the payment of Bridget’s debt and he keels over. The other heavy beside that table gets one hand into his jacket before his chest erupts in red and he staggers back, limbs hectic and loose. Already the gunmen are tracking across the restaurant. I see the chef duck out of sight, the other four heavies are rising and drawing.
“Stay down!” I yell at Bridget, shoving her away from me, then remember she has a gun and I don’t.
The two machine-gunners have stepped in, either side of the door, and another man comes through. He has automatic pistols, one in each hand, and starts assisting their fire. The next two heavies are blood-soaked and falling by the time the last two have finally drawn and start to return fire. But the attackers haven’t seen me yet, tight by the side of the door as I was.
I step across and bring one arm up underneath the elbow of the shooter closest to me, my other forearm slamming down across his wrist. I feel the heat of the barrel through my jacket as the gun bucks up, but the pop and snap of the guy’s elbow joint is louder. He screams but it’s already too late for him. I grab the weapon from his suddenly useless fingers, reverse it and find the trigger, turn his face to paste and he flies back out of the door.
The guy with the pistols turns to me as the other machine-gunner dives for cover in the opposite direction. Lombardi is still out of sight, the remaining two heavies are moving and firing. I have to leap away and hope like hell Bridget stays in the corner.
I roll over a table, flipping it up behind me as I land, then pop up for another burst of fire, make the attackers duck. As they all react, I move again, trying to get around the restaurant, draw everything away from Bridget. This gig might only be for seven-fifty, but it’s the principle of the thing. I have a new code now. I’ve agreed to do a job and I plan to keep her alive. Anyone else can get fucked.
And if I’m honest, this is the most fun I’ve had in ages.
As I move around, the guy with the pistols drops for cover right where Bridget was hiding. Shit. The other one is using the corner of the door and the front window for a modicum of cover, squeezing off bursts at Lombardi’s last two. He clips one, sends the guy spinning to the floor with a yelp of pain, then I get a bead on him and squeeze two short bursts. He drops, chest and throat jetting blood, the skin at the side of his neck flapping open like a saloon door.
What the fuck were these guys thinking? Did they expect much less resistance? Even without me here, three against six on home turf is bad odds. Then again, they nearly had them all down before I stepped in. I start to line up on the last guy, with the pistols, when he does a crazy twist that a gymnast would be proud of and slips behind a table. My burst of bullets shreds the window frame right where he’d been crouching, then Bridget is screaming as he hauls up and drags her with him. It takes me a second to realize he’s trying to drag her in front of himself like a shield, but he’s grabbed her bag, not her body, with one hand, firing randomly at me and Lombardi’s remaining heavy with the other. Bridget has the bag strap, still over her shoulder but held tight with both hands, and she’s pulling back against him. She doesn’t want to be a shield, but she’s not letting go of that bag either. No surprise, her whole life is in it, in used bills from Jerry Slovak’s stash.
Pistols is panicking, his face twisted in effort, and I line up to reduce his head to mince, but Lombardi’s boy clips him low on the thigh and he goes down to one knee. My burst misses and, as he falls, the bag strap gives up its hold on life. The gunman rolls backward, still holding the bag. In another feat of gymnastic prowess, he lets the roll take him all the way over, flipping his feet behind him out the door, then he’s up and limp-running, heading north back along 7th Avenue. Still with Bridget’s bag.
Her scream of, “NO!” is punctuated with a couple of last-ditch shots through the window from Lombardi’s boy, but his aim is off and the man is gone. Ignoring the moans and cries of pain, the patter of raining glass, I run back across the restaurant, knowing damn well Bridget is going to chase her bag. Sure enough, she’s out the door a few steps ahead of me.
“He’s still armed!” I yell, just as the sharp cracks of two shots sound over the traffic noise, and brick chips fly right beside Bridget. She ducks and skids to a stop and I grab her.
“My fucking money!”
“I know!”
We’re looking, but can’t see the guy anywhere. There’s a screech of tires and a dark blue Lincoln SUV tears away from the curb. A yellow cab blares its horn and barely misses the car beside it, then they’re gone. I see the attacker briefly through the window as they tear off. The road is busy despite the hour, people on the sidewalks are crouched in panic or running away from the mayhem that erupted inside Gino’s. The whole thing only took about ten seconds and some folks are still standing wide-mouthed, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.
“Where the fuck is he?” I hear the sob in Bridget’s voice.
She didn’t spot the getaway. “He had a car waiting. He’s gone.”
“My life went with him!”
“I know. I’m sorry. Jesus fuck, what a mess.” I realize I’m still holding the submachine gun, people are staring, some have started screaming. “Let’s get back inside.”
“We can’t let him go!”
“We already have. He’s gone. That was nothing to do with us, it was a hit on Lombardi. So if anyone’s gonna know who it was, therefore who we have to squeeze to get your money back, it’s him. So let’s get back inside and hope he survived.”
THEN
I couldn’t stop thinking about Carly’s call. I always thought I’d have to stay in Canada, but if the way really was open to go back to the US, I wanted to take it. I have no home, I have no life, but I decided that whatever I built from here on needed to be in the country I was used to. I’d always felt like an interloper, those two years in Canada. Treading water.
I realized I was excited again. When Vernon wasted Caitlyn and Scottie, he killed me too. He killed the Eli Carver I was, but I resurrected myself, baptized in a sea of blood. I never saw anything beyond that. It turned out Canada had been a waiting room. Thanks to the bastard’s daughter, I could finally begin to live again. Not that I was suddenly full of rainbows and unicorns. Any life I built would still be populated by the human animal, feeding on itself, but at least I wouldn’t be hiding anymore.
It took a few days, but I finally got my stuff in order. I had a couple of extant fake IDs I’d managed to slip away with, and I used one to get back into the States. Carly may have swept up the evidence, but that didn’t mean the authorities just forget. They might not be able to nab me for those crimes, but the name of Eli Carver will likely still trigger red flags somewhere. Better to stay incognito across the border. So I left Canada via Cornwall in a beat-up old Ford Taurus I’d had for twelve months, and re-entered the US via Roosevelton, New York, as Steve Johns. It’s an alias I never used much before. I decided it would be my fall back ID from there on.
My nerves ratcheted up at the border, but it all went smoothly. I guess I’m a white guy and that privilege gave me easy passage. “You’ve been in Canada a while,” the border officer said, his voice bored.
“Work contract,” I told him. “All done now and glad to be heading home.”
He nodded, barely sparing me a glance, and that was it.
And then I felt lost, like I was floating in open ocean. What the hell did I do now? No way I was going back south, too many memories, too many ghosts, real or imagined.
And of course, as soon as I thought of ghosts, the furious five materialized in the back seat, faces leering into my rearview mirror.
“Fuck off,” I said, before they could talk, but I knew it wouldn’t help.
“You really think you’ll be okay here?” Graney asked, leaning forward between the front seats. Blood dripped from the ragged hole in his throat, I heard it patter on the armrest next to me.
“Okay?”
“You may be grease when it comes to evidence, but we’ll find you. We’ll get you for something else.”
“Even if you have to plant new evidence? You’re a bunch of corrupt fucks, every bit as criminal as anyone I ever knew.”
He bubbled soft laughter and sat back, accepted a fat joint from Sly and fragrant smoke filled the car.
“What are you going to do?” Michael asked. “Where are you going?”
“I don’t know.”
“Better look out, cocheese!”
“For what?”
A loud bang startled me and I hit the brakes. The car coughed and lurched, then cut out, steam and smoke billowing from either side of the hood. Dwight’s laughter was brittle and only annoyed me further. How did he know that was going to happen? Or did I hear something and my brain gave me the thought through the psychosis I’ve named Dwight Ramsey? Every time I try to unravel this mania, I get a headache, and a stabbing behind my eye means the start of another, so I let the thoughts go.
“Sounds pretty fatal,” Alvin said, and he’s a mechanic so I had to accept he probably knew what he was talking about.
“Make yourself useful and help me fix it then,” I said as I popped the hood and climbed out. When I opened it up, more smoke roiled out.
Alvin stood next to me, thumbs in his belt loops. He leaned forward and blood dripped from the hole between his eyes, sizzled and steamed on the hot metal of the valve cover. “Yep, pretty fucked.”
“Gonna tell me how I can get it going again?” I asked.
He used his middle finger to point to the bullet hole between his eyes, then slowly tipped his hand down to flip me the bird. With a short bark of a laugh, he walked away.
“Leave it,” Michael said from my other side. “You got a few grand in savings, right? Walk away from this and from everything else. Really start again. Get to a city and find work.”
“Work?”
“Guy like you? You’re resourceful. You got skills.”
I took his advice. I hitched to Syracuse with a trucker who thankfully didn’t talk much, and figured I’d take Amtrak to New York City. I don’t have many friends, but there was an associate there who’d give me a couch and a hot meal. Tony Moretto. Made guy, nasty piece of work, always trying to make up for his short stature with meanness, when really no one else gives a fuck he’s only five foot six. Not a great associate, but it’s a start. If he was still there, of course. I had no number for him, but remembered his address. It was the start of a plan.
The train was busy when I got on board and I sat opposite a woman in a neat skirt and suit jacket, a large leather bag on the table in front her. She kept one hand on it like someone might try to snatch it any minute. Maybe they would. She should put it on her lap. She had another bag, one of those small rolling suitcases like people use for airline carry-on, between her feet. My only luggage was a large gym bag I could carry over one shoulder, a few changes of clothes and a handful of essentials. The previous couple of years had taught me to stay light.
I ignored Dwight and Alvin, pulling idiot faces that were probably meant to signify some kind of sex act. I mean, the woman was hot, probably around my age, definitely not over thirty. She had black hair, it glistened like a raven’s wing, and fine bone structure, cheekbones you could carve with. Her eyes were deep brown like fresh-tilled earth. I wondered if she was Japanese maybe? She looked like a femme fatale from a Dashiell Hammett novel in her sharp suit. I gave her a smile and a nod, tried to make sure I looked as non-threatening as possible. She returned the nod and I looked away, hoping to make her feel at ease. Five minutes later, the train eased out of Syracuse.
I realized Graney was sitting next to me, his police uniform neat as a pin. “Better look out!” he said, eyes narrowed and feral.
I glanced up and two police officers were walking through the car, looking left and right. My heart thumped an extra beat then I told myself to chill. I had nothing to fear, I’d done nothing wrong. Technically. Officially, anyway.
I realized the woman opposite had seen me tense up and it seemed infectious. She glanced back, spotted the cops, and whipped her eyes front again. Her knuckles whitened on the bag and she dragged it into her lap. My tension eased as curiosity took its place. I wondered what she’d done.
The cops stopped and talked quietly to a guy a couple of rows from us. I could only see the back of his head, but he seemed relaxed enough. They moved on and the one on the left eyeballed me and his face hardened. Fuck it. I’m an easy target, I guess, at around six foot two and two-twenty pounds. With my full beard and long black ponytailed hair, I suppose I looked like trouble. I was in jeans and canvas jacket, so it’s not as if I was dressed like a biker or a thug, but perhaps it was time to clean up my head a bit. A haircut and a shave might be in the cards, since Carly had cleared me. I’d never liked the damn beard anyway.
“Where you going?” the cop asked me. I noticed the woman opposite tense even more. She needed to chill out. As if she read my mind, she sucked in a deep breath and relaxed her face. She immediately locked down a façade of calm. Impressive.
“New York City,” I told the cop.
“What for?”
“Catching up with an old friend.” What the fuck business was it of theirs? This was harassment.
“Be cool!” Michael said in a harsh whisper beside me, his face all blood and bone and hanging flesh. I saw it from the corner of my eye, but refused to look at him. I was already cool, fuck ya.
The cop stared at me a while, then turned quickly to the woman. To her credit, she didn’t flinch. I decided these two were just a couple of king-shits, enjoying their power. Assholes.
“You?” he asked her.
“Me what?” She smiled. She was suddenly all smooth and confident calm.
The cop twisted his mouth in a grimace of annoyance. “Where you going?”
“New York City too.”
“And what’s your trip for?”
“Work.”
They held each other’s gaze for a moment, then the other cop nudged his partner, nodded ahead along the car. I turned my head to see a group of teens was up there, four of them looking guilty just for being alive. That’s kinda the default for teenagers after all, poor bastards. Without another word to us, both cops moved off to harass the kids.
I caught the woman’s eye. “Couple of assholes, huh?”
“Seriously.”
“You know, I think anyone who wants to be a cop should be disqualified from the job. Same with politicians.”
She laughed softly. “Nice idea. It’ll never catch on.”
“No, I guess not. You okay?”
“Sure, why not?”
She was masking it well, but I’d got her rattled again. I should have just left it, but it was a six-hour ride and I’m a curious person. “You seemed a little tense at first, that’s all. Bad experience with cops before?”
“Has anyone ever had a good experience with them?”
I laughed. “I certainly haven’t. I guess some people do, though.”
“I guess. So why are you really going to New York?” she asked, turning everything around so fast I blinked.
“What do you mean?”
“I can read you way better than those cops. You’re nervous.”
“Seems we’ve been paying attention to each other. Maybe we should be the cops.”
“Fuck that!” She shook her head. “Can’t imagine a worse job.”
“Well, by my philosophy, that makes you eminently qualified.”
She shook her head again. “Uh-uh. No way. Not a politician either. But you’re neatly avoiding the question. Why New York?”
She was good, I’ll give her that. “Honestly, I have nowhere else to go. I’m at a kinda loose end, starting over. I know a guy there, that’s all.”
“Starting over? Sounds like maybe there’s an interesting story behind that.”
“Maybe. Tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine.” I wouldn’t, but I could make something up.
She eyed me for a moment, lips pursed. Her eyes were soft, her lips full. She was smoking hot, and easily confident. Which I should have known could only mean trouble. “Okay,” she said eventually. “Why not. I’ll tell you something about me and we’ll see what you think.”
“What I think?”
“Sure, I’m interested. You look like a self-assured kinda guy, I’m wondering if you’ll break the mold.”
“Okay, now I’m intrigued. What mold?”
She took a breath, eyed me a moment longer. “I’m a professional gambler.”
Not what I expected. “That right?”
“Yeah. A few years ago I answered a job ad in a newspaper for a Professional Gambler’s Assistant.”
“And you managed to work your way up from assistant to actual gambler?”
She smiled, even white teeth and a sudden warmth in her eyes. “You already broke the mold a little bit. Well done.”
“I did?”
“Sure. Most guys simply can’t see a woman as a gambler. They always think I mean I’m a croupier or something.”
I was confused, and I frowned. “But you said you were a gambler.”
“I did. The ad for an assistant turned out to have been placed by a genuine professional gambler. He wanted to train a team to play blackjack in casinos around the world and rake in the cash. He taught us strategy, how to count cards, how to beat the house every time. It’s a kind of geeky and repetitive thing to do, and you have to play all day, every day, without mistakes, to turn a profit. But the upside is you get to travel the world. He took us all over. We played in casinos from New York to New Orleans, in England and Australia, Malaysia and Macau. My life was a series of casinos and hotels, piles of money counted up on different hotel room beds every night. Glamorous as hell, right?”
