He had turned into the empty parking area in front of the store, pulled up right next to the guy’s truck facing the plateglass windows covered with bargain signs and watched him go in, the guy wearing a jacket that said ironworkers on the back. Like he was proud of it. Look at me, I’m a fucking ironworker, man. Richie’s idea was to give the ironworker something to look at when he came out, the muzzle of a pump gun. Then began to think if he needed anything. Yeah, sunglasses; he’d misplaced his shades somewhere. He wondered if he’d have time to run in and get a pair, come back out . . .
Or do the job in there, Richie thought. What’s the difference? It even gave him another idea. Do more than the job. Make it a double feature.
He walked into the store carrying the shotgun down at his side. He didn’t see the ironworker. The two checkout counters were right in front of him, a girl in there between them, chewing gum as she looked up at him and then down again, not seeming too interested. She was reading a magazine. Richie noticed her hair looked oily. He didn’t see the ironworker anywhere.
Then did see him, way down at the end of an aisle, two six-packs under his arm, picking up a bag of potato chips.
The trick now was to do both almost at once. Richie raised the shotgun high enough to aim it at the girl and saw her drop the magazine as he said, “This’s your big day, honey. Empty out that cash drawer for me in a paper bag and set it on the counter. And some gum. Gimme a few packs of that bubble gum, too.” The girl was about eighteen, not too good-looking, dark, maybe an Indian. When she didn’t move he said, “Do it,” and she jumped and got busy. He swung the shotgun at the aisle then, yelled out, “Hey!” and saw the ironworker look this way at him, which was the idea, get him looking. But shit, as he fired and pumped and fired, the buckshot blowing hell out of the potato-chip rack and the soda pop on the far wall, the ironworker disappeared. Richie stepped to the next aisle, saw him moving and fired and pumped and fired again; man, raking the shelves, cans flying, bottles busting, but no ironworker lying there. Shit, missed again. Saw him going for a door, the six-packs still under his arm, the ironworker in the doorway as Richie fired his last round and shot out the glass part of the door as it swung closed. Shit.
The guy could be out the back by now. Richie was pretty sure the ironworker had seen enough of him to know who he was. That was better than nothing. Keep the guy jumpy, looking over his shoulder, and get him some other time. There was too much to stand here and think about right now. Richie turned to the girl. He laid the shotgun on the counter and picked up the paper bag sitting there.
“This everything?”
She nodded, holding her hands in front of her, sort of hunched in with her head bent, looking down at the floor.
“Are you Indian?”
The girl shook her head.
“You look Indian. You ought to use something on your hair. You know what I mean? A shampoo with a conditioner in it. Give it some body.”
Man, she sure looked Indian. Thinking it made him think of the Bird. Which got him thinking along another line, staring at this girl. He said to her, “Look at me.”
She raised her head but couldn’t seem to fix her eyes on him, they kept jumping around.
“You sure you’re not Indian?”
She was biting on her lip as she shook her head, not chewing her gum now.
Richie said, “Well, it don’t matter.” He reached behind him, brought out his nickel-plate .38 and shot the girl square in the forehead.
***
Now, that was exciting, when it happened spur of the moment. The way the Bird worked it, that’s what it seemed like, work, like a job. And thought, Jesus Christ, the Bird. Richie turned the van around in Algonac and headed back out into the country. All the excitement, he forgot he had to pick up the Indian.
What it did was settle his mind, made him realize he’d get another crack at the ironworker. If the Bird was at the guy’s house and the guy’s truck was still at the 7-Eleven ...Tell the Bird it was a kick, man, using a shotgun. The Bird would say yeah, but you missed. And he’d tell the Bird not to sweat it, the guy would be coming home soon. Tell the Bird no, there aren’t any witnesses, I done what you told me. Hand him the take from the holdup. Oh, here, I almost forgot. You proud of me? See, I went in there to get some sunglasses, account of I misplaced the ones I had. I been trying to remember . . .
It was quiet out here, starting to get dark. Richie slowed down, aware that he was coming up on the ironworker’s house, but still in his mind thinking about those goddamn sunglasses, the last time he’d worn them—and was startled, Jesus Christ, to see the Bird appear at the side of the road, coming out of the brush with his arm raised. Richie was past him by the time he braked to a hard stop. The Bird came up to the van in a hurry. He got in saying, “Let’s go. Get out of here.”
Richie didn’t say anything quite yet. He waited till they were up the road, in sight of the highway they’d take to Marine City. All the things he was going to tell the Bird were forgotten. What he finally said was, “Shit, I remember where I lost my fucking sunglasses.”
The Bird sat there in his own mind for a while. Finally, all he said was, “This ought to be good.”
9
A STATE POLICE INVESTIGATOR told the Colsons they would be hearing from the FBI. With suspicion of criminal activity across a border it had become a federal case.
Wayne said, “You mean you suspect these two guys are criminals? We’re moving right along, aren’t we?”
After two more days of police from various jurisdictions marching in and out, police cars in the drive, in the yard, police cars creeping by at night flashing high-beam spots on the house, lighting up their bedroom, Wayne stood on the side porch to deliver a speech. He said:
“I got a speeding ticket out at Detroit Metro one time, forty in a twenty-five zone, over there to pick up my wife coming back from visiting her dad, in Florida. It made me think, if you can get stopped for driving too fast at an airport, if the traffic is that light, it doesn’t say much for our economy, does it? But that’s not the point I want to make.
The point is, it’s the only time I’ve ever been stopped in Michigan for a moving violation. Ohio’s a different story. That drive down I–Seventy-five is so goddamn boring you can’t get through it fast enough. But soon as you try, they nail you, there’s Smokey with his goddamn hat on, every bit as serious as you guys. What I’m leading up to, I want you to understand I’ve never been arrested or had any trouble with police. I’ve never swung at a cop, I’ve never talked back to one, even in Ohio, till the other day, over at the real estate office. I said why don’t you go over to Walpole and find out who’s driving an ’86 Cadillac. If you did, you’d have caught the two guys and Lionel Adam would be alive. But what you guys’d rather do is sit around and drink our coffee and ask the same goddamn questions over and over. How many times you gonna ask me if I saw both guys at the Seven-Eleven? How could I if one of them was here? How many times you gonna ask me what the guy was driving after I told you I didn’t see his car? Or did I actually see him shoot the girl? Why is there any question who did it? Who else could have? How many times you gonna go look at that bullet-hole in the chickenhouse? My wife told you she fired the shot and has a sore shoulder to prove it. She told you she wasn’t trying to hit him and you act like you don’t believe it. Not one of you has said nice going or it was a brave thing my wife did.
Had she shot the son of a bitch would you arrest her for it? I don’t see where you guys are doing a goddamn thing besides drink coffee and bump into each other. You sure as hell don’t communicate among your different groups or we wouldn’t be getting the same goddamn questions over and over.”