“You heard right I need the list back.”
“So why are you tellin’ me?”
“Because I think you’ve still got it. You might fool the mob, but I know damn well you’d never give that list to Byrne. I want it back.”
“No way.”
“This is serious, Moroconi. I have to have it. Have you made any copies?”
“Not yet.”
“Then don’t. Bring me the original.”
“You little turd. Have you forgotten we had a deal? You sure as hell took my money fast enough.”
“I’ll return it. It’s too risky now. I think Henderson is suspicious.”
“Well, isn’t that too bad for you?”
Janicek clenched the phone tightly. “It’ll be too bad for you, too, you bastard, if I decide to tell everything I know.”
There was an extended silence, interrupted only by Moroconi’s raspy breathing into the receiver.
“Goddamn list isn’t complete as it is.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it isn’t right!” Moroconi shouted. “I wanted Jack. Before I did anyone else, I was going to do Jack. But he isn’t there. The address on the list is wrong.”
“That can’t be. The list is checked and updated constantly.”
“Well, it’s goddamn true, you chickenshit.”
“If the list is incorrect, then you shouldn’t mind giving it back.”
“Wrong. That list is my insurance policy.”
“What do you need it for now? Just stay out of sight. They’ll never find you.”
“They already have, asshole. I got mail while I was holed up at the motel. Hand-delivered.”
“From … them?”
“You got it. Elcon, that’s what they call themselves. Pissants. Trying to scare me off, like I was some second-grader.”
“Don’t be a fool, Moroconi. You can’t beat them. The smartest thing you can do is keep a low profile and get the hell out of town.”
Moroconi seemed to consider. “Maybe you’re right. But I got some business to take care of first.”
“Revenge is for losers, Moroconi.”
“Not the way I do it.”
“You’re playing with fire. If you know what I mean.”
He laughed. “But I won’t be the one who gets burned.”
“Why don’t we meet somewhere and try to come up with a concerted plan of action? Two heads are better than one.”
Moroconi released a slow whistle. “You son of a bitch. You’re tryin’ to set me up, aren’t you? You’re gonna kill me!”
“Moroconi, you’re becoming paranoid—”
“Like hell. You’re tryin’ to lure me somewhere so you can off me just like you did that dick Mooney. Just to save your own sweet ass.”
“That’s ridiculous—”
“Don’t lie to me, you cheap motherfucker!”
“I’m desperate!” Janicek shouted, then checked himself. He looked outside his office door. No one appeared to have heard, thank God. “Henderson suspects. Do you know what will happen to me if he figures it out?”
“You should’ve thought of that before you got greedy. You knew the risks you were takin’.”
“I didn’t know you were going to shoot two guards! I didn’t know you were going to kill some hood at the West End!”
“Your escape plan was fucked. I had no choice.”
“My plan was flawless. The only thing that was fucked was you.”
There was another long pause. Janicek could hear Moroconi muttering under his breath, but he was fortunately unable to hear what he was saying.
“I won’t be callin’ anymore,” Moroconi said, finally. “Don’t come lookin’ for me.” He paused, then added: “If I see you, I’ll kill you.”
55
7:02 A.M.
KRAMER RUBBED HIS HANDS together with expectation. The recent turn of events had been extremely promising. A successful capture last night, and now a positive ID on that damned yellow Omni. Who could ask for anything more?
Mario, probably, but that was beside the point. Mario would get everything he wanted—the end of Travis Byrne, the end of Alberto Moroconi, and his own personal copy of the list. And then, once the job was completed, Kramer had some settling up to do with Mario. This time he wouldn’t be satisfied with an invitation to the family picnic. No one treated him the way Mario had. No one.
In fairness, he supposed he had to give Mario his due. His carefully choreographed displays of temper had produced the desired result. Kramer had stepped up his efforts—doubled them, to be exact. And Donny had been inspired right into oblivion. Kramer had sent every available thug in Dallas after that yellow Dodge Omni. This had increased his expenses a thousandfold; he probably would be hard-pressed to make a profit off this deal now. Bottom line, though: he wanted Byrne—and Byrne’s new bitch lawyer assistant. And now he had them.
He was on a high grassy ridge overlooking the Black Angus Inn with the five best sharpshooters he knew. Five rifles were trained on the yellow Omni in the parking lot.
And just in time. Even from this distance, Kramer could see two heads, one above the driver’s seat, one above the passenger’s. Soon they would back out and try to become invisible on the LBJ Expressway. Kramer didn’t intend to give them the chance.
Kramer brought his hand down and his men opened fire. An uninterrupted cascade of bullets rained down on the Omni. The windows shattered; glass flew everywhere. The car lurched and shuddered as its small frame was riddled with lead. The heads above the seats fell over.
One of his men tapped Kramer on the shoulder. “The gas tank?”
Kramer resisted the temptation. That would be beautiful. But premature. “Not yet. Let me confirm the kills and take a few photos for Uncle Mario. Then you can blow the thing sky high.”
Kramer scanned both sides of the ridge. So far the shooting didn’t appear to have attracted any attention. He climbed down and crossed the parking lot. Smoke was still rising from the shattered hull of the Omni. Its tires had gone flat; it drooped over the asphalt like vehicular roadkill. Pleased, Kramer strolled up to the car and peered into the front seat.
Pillows. They were pillows. Well-dressed pillows, but pillows, nonetheless. Pillows wrapped in shirts and coats, propped up so that a head-shaped circlet of fluff appeared just above the seat cushions.
They were way ahead of him. They had ditched the car and left nothing but the pillows behind. They had fooled him.
Kramer pounded his fist on the hood of the car. Goddamn them! They had played him for a fool.
Kramer glanced up the ridge. Already his men were headed this way. Soon they would know he had been tricked, and then, within hours, everyone else would know. Travis Byrne had already tarnished his reputation. Now he had caused irreparable damage.
Kramer strode resolutely out of the parking lot. His men called to him, but he ignored them. He didn’t need them, he didn’t need Mario—he didn’t need anyone. This wasn’t an assignment anymore. This was personal.
This was a score to settle, a score between Vincent Kramer and Travis Byrne. No more fake couriers, no more firebombs, no more plugged pillows. Next time it would be just him and Byrne.
Byrne was going to die. Slowly. And Kramer was going to enjoy doing it, too.
So what if Byrne and that bitch had gotten away again? It didn’t matter. After all, he still had the girl.
56
7:30 A.M.
TRAVIS FUMBLED WITH THE shift stick in their newly acquired Hyundai. He rarely drove a standard and barely remembered how.
Cavanaugh was staring out the passenger-side window. Something was on her mind. He’d have given a million dollars to know what she was thinking, what she thought about him. About them. But so far, no clues.