“So they bit on that old obituary in LA papers, the one that said you died in Mexico?” Parini leaned forward and listened intently.
“When I told Tinkerton how they got it all wrong, he just laughed and admitted that every now and then their computers screwed up.” I smiled. “What they missed was the fact that I wasn't dead.”
“Not yet anyway,” Parini snorted as he looked over at Sandy.
“Okay, Gino, a little wager.” I leaned forward in the chair. “I'll bet you that. 45 of yours that ‘the Mole’ wasn't married.”
Parini leaned back and studied me carefully for a moment, but he didn't bite.
“Come on, Gino. A little gentlemanly wager?” I goaded him.
“Nah, I can read your eyes. You don't bluff so well, kid. You know something.”
“I told him he can't lie worth a damn,” Sandy interjected. “But while you two keep screwing around, those guys in the gray sedans are coming back.”
“I'm right, aren't I?” I ignored her. ‘The Mole” was single, wasn't he?”
“Yeah, he was single, but how'd you know?”
“With a name like that?”
Parini roared with laughter. “Yeah, my dumb. That was a no-brainer, wasn't it?”
“That's why when they dig up Eddie Kasmarek's grave in Columbus, they're going to find “the Mole's” body inside,” I said. “See, they needed the name of a single guy and they thought Eddie was single. They didn't know about Sandy, because they had an ugly divorce last year and none of Eddie's obituaries mentioned her.”
“I wouldn't let them,” she answered. “I didn't want anything more to do with that bastard.”
Parini leaned back and stared at her and at me, then slowly nodded. “You know, you might be onto something, Ace.”
“Peter, we need to get that stuff and get the hell out of here,” Sandy said.
“What stuff?” Gino asked
“The papers I have on Eddie,” she answered. “His death certificate, the obituary from the Tribune, maybe receipts from his insurance, the ambulance, the cemetery, that kinda stuff.”
“And if I can get some proof on those other guys: Skeppington, Brownstein, and Pryor, and their wives…”
“Not a bad idea.” Gino nodded. “But you got lucky. They've only got a skeleton crew here, pardon the pun, just the three cars so far, but there'll be a lot more pretty soon, Tinkerton too. My big Lincoln's parked two blocks over and you and me, we gotta get out of here, Ace.”
Sandy looked at me and almost exploded. “What's this “you and me, Ace” crap? I thought it was you and me doing this thing, Talbott, the two of us, together, remember?”
“Sandy, look…” I tried to explain.
“What? You're leaving me here? I knew it!”
“They don't have anything on you.”
“No? How about a bunch of men's clothes on my credit card, all your size, and your fingerprints all over my aunt's place. Well, at least I don't have them all over me!”
“You can still walk away from all this.”
“Walk away? She folded her arms across her chest and glared at me. “Yesterday I was next on their list, a “loose end” they were going to make “disappear.” Remember? Can you say, “accomplice,” and “aiding and abetting,” or maybe “accessory?”
“I don't want to see you get hurt, Sandy.”
“How sweet. Well, fuck you, Talbott. And fuck you too, Parini! I guess all that “stuff” isn't so damned important anymore.”
“Some mouth on that woman of yours, Ace.”
She raised her hand and would have smacked him too, gun or no gun, until I stepped between them. “Okay, okay. You're right. I can't leave you behind. You can come with.”
“What a freakin’ wuss.” Parini shook his head sarcastically.
“Do you really mean that?” She glared. “Or are you just saying it to shut me up.”
“I mean it, honest,” I told her. “I couldn't live with myself if anything happened to you. So, come with me, please.”
“You're gonna regret this,” Parini warned.
“Probably,” I replied. “But I got her into it, and I need to get her out. Now go get those damned papers.”
“Apology accepted,” Sandy said as she looked across at Parini and stuck out her tongue. “And the big Dago's right, you are a wuss.” She dashed down the hall to her bedroom and came back out, jamming a large handful of papers into her shoulder bag as she ran past me. She was coming with. Half of me was glad she was and half knew Parini was right. It was a mistake. Being stupid and risking my own life was one thing, but now I was risking hers too.
Parini opened the back door and looked out. “Shut up and stay behind me,” he said as he stepped onto the rear porch and motioned for us to follow. We moved quickly and quietly down the twisting flights of stairs with Gino in front, Sandy in the middle, and me taking up the rear. When we reached the bottom, Parini stopped and we stopped behind him. The staircase continued down to the right into dark shadows, where it ended at the basement door a half-floor below, but we weren't going that far. As Gino stepped forward into the yard, I saw a black automatic pistol rise from the shadows in the dark stairwell below and it was pointed at his back, less than five feet away. The arm was in a dark suit coat, with a white shirt, French cuffs, and gold cuff links. Before I could react, Sandy swung her heavy shoulder bag over the handrail. With a ferocious grunt that would have made Anna Kournikova proud, she slammed the bag into the gunman's face and arm, spoiling his aim and knocking him backward down the stairs as he pulled the trigger.
In the narrow confines of the concrete stairwell, the pistol went off with an, echoing, ear-splitting “Blang!” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Parini grab his leg and go down hard. I had no doubt the gunman's plan was to take Parini out with the first shot and then turn the automatic on Sandy and me. The only reason he failed was Sandy's purse.
The gunman had fallen down the stairs, but he didn't stay down long. He came charging back up with his gun out, swearing angrily. I didn't get a good look at him, but when I saw the French cuff and the flash of gold, I knew this was the head goon in the sunglasses that Sandy threw into the wall. His pistol was already tracking around toward her, when something inside me snapped. Without thinking, I let loose a blood-curdling scream and dove over the railing onto him. In that instant, he came to personalize all of my frustrations going back to LA, Terri's death, losing my job, Columbus, the Bronco, the embalming table in the basement of Greene's Funeral Home, and all the rest of it. The scream distracted him just long enough. After that, the poor bastard could have been Freddie Krueger with his steel fingernails and a chain saw, and he wouldn't have stood a chance.
I landed next to him with feet, elbows, knees, and fists flying. He tried to bring the gun around and take me out, but my right fist found his face first, with everything I could put behind it. The automatic went off a second time and a loud, echoing “Blang! Blang!” before my fingers found his wrist. I knocked the gun aside and raked his knuckles down the rough brick wall. He grunted and the automatic fell on the bare concrete floor below.
That was a nice start, but even without the pistol, he had a lot more experience at this kind of thing than I did. I was tottering back and forth on the edge of the stair above him, losing my balance, as he attacked. He grabbed me by the throat. Hand bleeding, nose swollen, he swung me around and slammed me against the rough concrete wall. His fingers felt like vise-grips as they dug into my throat and closed around my Adam's apple. I tucked my chin into my chest and twisted away, but he was way ahead of me. He squeezed harder and the pain paralyzed me. Somehow, I fought through the haze. I pushed off the wall and drove my shoulder into him. His heels slipped off the stair and he lost his balance. His grip on my throat relaxed just enough for me to get one deep breath and plant a fist in his ribs.