"Just take the fucking money, Benny," Frank said, holding out the wad of cash. "Please."
Benny scratched his chin, stuffed the money into his coat pocket. "Thanks."
"Where is the sonofabitch?"
"Richland," Benny told him. "Little town about ten minutes over the border. He runs a little tire shop, gas station – some shit like that – it's perfect. Shouldn't take us more than a few hours."
Frank looked at him. "Us?"
"I got nothing else to do."
"I didn't expect you to come, Benny."
"I know," he said quietly.
Frank cracked the window; felt splinters of rain hit his face like little pins and needles. "You could've had a piece of the business. Why did you side with me over Vincent?"
"I didn't. I sided with me."
"But Vincent's offer was the better deal. It was the logical business move."
Benny shrugged. "Maybe."
"I'm talking strictly from a business angle," Frank told him. "Most guys would've jumped at the chance."
"There's more to life than business, Frank." Benny took a chocolate bar from his coat and unwrapped it. "This was a hell of a ride while it lasted, but I'm not cut out for all the rest. I'm just a petty criminal, Frank, and that's the way I like it. Petty criminals live longer. Besides, Vin's fucking nuts. He's a good guy and all, but he's nuts. I made a couple dollars, saw a couple places, met some cool people, did my job and didn't make my exit feet first. You got to know when to fold up your tent and go home, Frank. I'm not saying I didn't think about Vin's offer, but Christ, I got a wife and two babies at home. I don't need that shit, you know what I'm saying?"
Frank lit a cigarette, exhaled through the opening in the window. "I know exactly what you're saying."
"You always treated me with respect," Benny said, chomping the candy bar. "If you've got some business to take care of, I want to help you out. I figure I owe you that much."
"You don't owe me a thing, Ben."
"I'm glad you feel that way." Benny crumpled the wrapper, tossed it on the floor. "Because after today, I'm done."
"So am I."
Benny nodded. "Then let's go."
CHAPTER 18
The snow, it seemed, had gotten heavier since Frank had gone inside. Benny continued to watch the mirrors, hoping that the road would remain clear.
He jumped; the sound of the. 38 was unmistakable. The blast must have been deafening in such a small place, he thought.
"Come on, Frank," he said aloud, looking to see if the boom had caused suspicion at the convenience store across the street. "Come on."
Frank stepped back. The gun was still smoking, and he looked down at Artie Bertalia through the quickly dissipating cloud. He had plastered himself against the wall where he'd fallen, and once he realized Frank had shot a hole in the wall behind him instead of directly into his mouth, he began to cry again.
"Oh, Jesus Christ," he sobbed, his hands running over his plump bloodied face as if to make certain everything was still intact. "Jesus Christ, sweet, sweet Jesus Christ." He adjusted his glasses, peered through them at Frank. "Please, I didn't – I did some things I shouldn't have done to your mother, but – I'm very ashamed of those things, really, I – please, I – I didn't kill anyone – I didn't kill anyone. It was a long time ago, I – I was just a kid myself."
Frank ran a hand through his damp hair. His ears were still ringing. "Shut up, asshole."
"I don't deserve to die – not like this – please, not like this. I'll do anything you say, but – please."
Frank pointed the gun at him a second time. "Shut the fuck up."
"Okay," Artie gasped. "O-Okay."
Frank focused on the blood, then the puddle of urine, then his own hands. They had begun to tremble, the odd steadiness a thing of the past. His mind replayed hundreds of images, and all he could be certain of was that at that exact moment, he was totally, completely, helplessly insane.
"Don't look at me, fat man."
Artie's head lolled forward, eyes trained on the floor.
Frank slowly raised the gun, placed it under his own chin, and blinked away a drop of perspiration, a spattering of blood, or both, that had dripped across his brow. "Do you love your wife, Artie?" he heard himself ask.
"Yes," he whimpered. "Yes, I do."
Frank dropped his arm, removing the weapon from his chin and allowing it to dangle at his side as whatever semblance of his sanity that remained slowly reasserted itself. Crouching down next to him, Frank grabbed a handful of the man's hair and jerked his head back so that he could look into his watery eyes. "If you ever try to come after me," he said in a strangely quiet voice, "if I ever hear from you again – "
"No, I – I'll never tell anyone. I swear, I – "
"If you ever come to me in a fucking dream," Frank told him, the gun now pressed against Artie's temple. "You'll be dead the same day."
Artie managed a quick nod, his eyes riveted on Frank's gun hand. "I swear you'll never see or hear from me again."
"I've got lots of friends. If something happens to me – if I should step off a curb and get run down by a car – or if you get it in your head to send somebody else to do the job for you, they'll get you. There's nowhere to hide from the connections I have."
"I know," he said, choking on the word. "I understand."
"Say your prayers tonight, Artie," Frank told him. "I came here to kill us both."
Benny saw Frank emerge from the office, and quickly put the car into gear. The moment Frank was inside he pulled away.
Frank returned the gun and gloves to the bag, noticing that despite the cold his face and neck were bathed in sweat and partially flecked with a small spattering of Artie's blood. Eventually, he wiped himself clean.
They drove on for more than a mile in silence.
"Did you kill him?" Benny finally asked.
"Does it matter?"
"Not to me. I just need to know if there's any chance this guy's gonna be calling the cops any time soon."
"None." Frank felt the car slow a bit. "Just get me the hell out of here, Benny."
Benny checked the rearview. "We'll be on the state highway in no time. Once we get back in Massachusetts let's stop and get something to eat. I'm starving. You hungry, Frank?"
Frank stared out the window, watched the snow fall.
CHAPTER 19
Frank's legs felt like limp noodles as he wearily made his way up the stone walkway to the house. The hamburger and fries he'd eaten on the way back from Vermont had settled heavily in the pit of his stomach, and emotions ranging from anticipation to apprehension filled his senses.
The front door was open. Dressed in jeans, a heavy wool sweater and sneakers, Sandy stood looking at him from the doorway as if welcoming home a stray pet. Her face was pale, her eyes bloodshot. She managed a slight smile and crossed her arms over her chest.
"Hi," Frank said, pausing a few feet from the door.
"You look like you've had a bad time."
"I have."
She glanced at the ground. "Is it over?"
"Yes."
"I'd invite you in, but…" Sandy glanced nervously over her shoulder. "My parents aren't feeling very friendly at the moment."
Frank nodded. "Then let's just go. Get your stuff, I'll wait for you in the car." She stared at him, unmoving, and he stepped closer. "What is it?"
"I don't think that's a good idea," she answered softly, the words catching in her throat.
"Why not?"
"I'm going to stay here for a while, Frank."
He shut his eyes, left them that way. "Can't we at least talk about this?"
"I don't see the point."
"You don't see the point? You're leaving me and you don't see the point of maybe discussing it first?"