But for now, it was still about little kids playing make-believe, dressing like their heroes, filled up with faith in a system that wouldn’t trick you if you played by the rules.
Worth didn’t realize he’d nodded off until he was jerked awake by somebody pounding on the window. When he saw who it was, he got a bad taste in his mouth.
“I thought we were done with this,” Mark Vargas said.
The street ahead had emptied, and the cab of the Ranger was cold. Worth moved his watch into the light of the streetlamp: 9:15.
This was crazy. He shouldn’t have driven out here. But he had, and here he sat. He took a breath, twisted the ignition to the accessory position, and ran the window down.
Vargas hadn’t put on a coat to come outside. He stood there in jeans and a sweater, breath coming out like steam. Just the sight of his face put a knot in Worth’s gut.
“She’s in there scared.” Vargas nodded across the street, to the house with all the landscaping and the big detached garage. “Does that make you happy?”
“No,” Worth said. “I’m not—”
“Sitting outside my house?” Vargas looked like he was ready for anything. “Seriously? We’re not done with this yet?”
Hearing it like that didn’t sound fair. All of that had ended months ago. “I’m not—”
“I told her it was a mistake to talk to you.”
“Look, this isn’t—”
“Put your hands where I can see them.”
Jesus. The guy actually thought he was here to hurt somebody.
Worth put his hands on the steering wheel and said, “I came to talk to you.”
“We talked already.”
“This isn’t about that.”
“Then what the hell are you doing here?”
Up the street, a guy straight out of an Eddie Bauer catalog stood up straight and looked their way. Vargas raised a hand to him. Don’t worry. Everything’s under control. The guy gave the Ranger a long sideways look and went back to snuffing his luminaries.
Worth realized he was gripping the steering wheel.
He made himself stop, looked at Mark Vargas, and swallowed every last ounce of his pride.
“I need your help,” he said.
It was painful, no question about that. But it didn’t hurt as much as he’d expected it would.
Eddie finished counting three hundred grand from the office safe, laying it into the plain brown case on the desk. Crisp new bundles, all twenties.
Honestly, the message from Chicago hurt more than the money. Eddie could be trusted; there was no reason to send a collector all the way here. But Mr. Plaski had insisted. Fucking Polacks.
“How about this weather?” he said.
The man from Chicago didn’t seem interested in chatting about the weather or anything else. He just wanted his boss’s money. The money Russell was supposed to have transported days ago. He stood on the other side of the desk with a long wool coat draped over his arm: expensive suit, dark turtleneck sweater, a classy-looking watch on his wrist.
Eddie was surprised the Poles had sent a black guy. For some reason he’d thought the old-country types were prejudiced.
“I hope Mr. Plaski understands that this isn’t the way Eddie Tice normally does business.”
He turned the case, lid open, and nudged it across the desk. It was at least 40K more than Russell had stolen, but Eddie wanted to express his contrition over the whole goddamned sorry bullshit situation.
Tony had advised him against it. You don’t volunteer to pay somebody more than you owe, Uncle Eddie. It sends all the wrong signals.
But Tony wasn’t a businessman. And Eddie wasn’t trying to get some broad in the sack. He was making a good-faith investment in a business partnership. A partnership between reasonable men.
The man from Chicago stepped forward. He closed the case with one hand, snapping the latches one at a time.
“I’m sorry you had to make the trip,” Eddie said. “This is a one-time adjustment, believe me. I’ve addressed the problem, I can promise you.”
The man nodded. “You’ve addressed the problem?”
“Mr. Plaski can be assured of that.”
“What is the problem, in your view?”
“Well, obviously there was…”
“How have you addressed it?”
Eddie closed his mouth.
“Mr. Plaski has concerns,” the man said.
“I can understand that.” Eddie nodded to show that he understood completely. “Whatever I can do to reassure…”
While Eddie was talking, the man from Chicago put his hand beneath his overcoat and casually produced an automatic pistol. Eddie was so busy planning what he was going to say next that he didn’t even notice at first.
All at once, everything changed. It was as if the office began to hum all around him. Eddie took one look at the gun pointed at his stomach and felt his scrotum shrink.
“Hey, no, look. Listen.”
“Which?”
“Jesus,” Eddie said. “Which what?”
“Do you want me to look? Or do you want me to listen?”
“I just…Jesus, wait.”
“Wait? You’re being indecisive, Mr. Tice.”
The gun had a long, fat cylinder attached to the barrel. Eddie had seen that shit in the movies. Professional killers used it when they wanted to shoot you so nobody could hear.
“Just wait.” Eddie held up his palms. “I think Ican…”
He heard a quick splurt of air, and something burst in his leg. For a split second, it felt like he’d been hit in the knee with a hammer. His whole leg went numb.
Then there was pain.
A whole big world of pain.
Eddie didn’t realize he’d buckled until he found himself sitting in his chair. He heard screaming. For a moment, based on the roar in his head, he assumed the screams were his.
Then he saw Darla. She stood in the doorway, holding a feather duster, eyes wide and swimming with fear. Her hands flew to her mouth; the feather duster fell to the floor.
No.
What was she doing here? They’d agreed to meet at the hotel. She’d left an hour ago, with the other employees.
But now here she was, back again. She’d transformed from Snow White into a slutty, sexy maid. Garters, stockings, cleavage and lace, a frilly apron the size of a handkerchief.
Eddie whispered, “Please don’t.”
The man from Chicago had already turned. Eddie heard the same sound a second time—just a little puff of air. Like a whisper.
A small hole appeared in the bridge of Darla’s nose. Something splattered the door frame behind her head. Her eyes went dull, and she stood there a moment, half naked, seeming confused.
Then she sagged.
Oh, no.
No, no, no.
Eddie’s hands were slick. His pants leg was slippery with blood. What was happening? What had happened here?
“Please,” he said. He looked at the man from Chicago. What more did he want? It was all in the case, the whole wad. With interest. “Tell me what I—Jesus, why are you doing this?”
The man from Chicago put on his coat. He took the case from the desk. Case in one hand, gun in the other, he looked at Eddie.
He said, “‘Put a bullet in his knee. If he spits in your face and tells you to fuck yourself, put him on the phone and I’ll speak with him further.’ Those were Mr. Plaski’s words.”
How could this be happening? Eddie wished he could start over. Do something different. He couldn’t find any words to say.
“‘If he begs or tries to bargain, just blow his stupid brains out and come home.’” The man from Chicago shrugged. “Mr. Plaski’s words. Not mine.”