The Betrayers (10 page)

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Authors: James Patrick Hunt

BOOK: The Betrayers
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The McGuire woman said, “Are you trying to make me a part of this?”
Hastings said, “A part of what?”
“Buying crank dealers dinner?”
Hastings shrugged. “He was hungry.”
“That's not the point.”
“What is your point?”
“My point is, you're using him to cover up for another cop.”
That stopped him. Up till then, he had known, in a way, that she was an adversary. Or was in adversarial position, which maybe wasn't quite the same thing. But he had not expected her to hit him with something like that. He felt it then; anger rising and he wanted to control his tone of voice.
“No,” he said. “Goddamn it, that is not true. I did not do that.”
“You—”
“Were you too goddamn busy judging me to listen to what was said in there? I told him at least twice
not
to tell me what I wanted to hear. Twice, I told him that. Christ, why do you think I asked you to come along?”
“You had no choice.”
“Oh, shit, lady. I could have driven around the block and picked
him up after you left. You'd've been none the wiser. Did you once see me threaten him? Did you once see me ask him to lie?”
“You got him out of jail. You buy him chili and eggs. He's an addict. He'll tell you whatever you want.”
Hastings patted his jacket pocket. “It's all on tape, Ms. McGuire. I have done nothing I'm ashamed of. You want to try to twist it into some sort of obstruction conspiracy, you go right ahead. But I've got tape.”
It pushed her back on her heels. But only for a moment. She said, “Spare me your sanctimony, detective. I know how you guys work. If the tape helps you, you keep it. If it hurts you, you erase it. Tonight, it happened to help you. And by the way, what do you mean ‘twist it'? What are you accusing me of?”
“You're the one doing the accusing. And, worse, you're doing it just to do it. I know your type, madam. You've got issues with cops. They're all dirty as far as you're concerned.”
“You don't ‘know' me at all. What—do you think I popped open a bottle of champagne when I found out that two police officers had been killed? Two cops whacked. Yippee.”
“I don't know. Did you?”
“Oh for God's sake,” she said. “Everything's so black and white with you people. I'm not on your enemies list, detective. I'm not on the side of murder.”
“Well just who are you representing now? Huh? And don't tell me it's Kody Sparks because we both know this isn't about him.” Hastings said, “You accuse me of covering things up. On whose behalf are you doing that? You stand there defending someone we don't even know yet. Someone we haven't caught. Someone who murdered two men.”
She stood quietly there in her jeans and raincoat, her cheeks red with cold or anger. She stood there neither ashamed nor afraid. Finally she said, “Well, you seem to have made up your mind about me.”
She went back into Irv's, leaving him outside alone.
The door to McGill's opened and two guys came in. One of them took a stool at the bar and the other one stood and leaned against it. They were both in their thirties. The guy sitting on the stool wore a porkpie hat and a gray suit and a tweed overcoat. He was heavy and short and round. People who knew him called him Bacon. The guy standing against the bar wore wool slacks and a black leather jacket. He was taller and thinner. His name was Sean Rizza.
They ordered Miller Lites and asked to see the menu.
Kate Regan brought it to them.
Sean Rizza looked around the place. He saw two guys at the other end of the bar who did not concern him. He saw two other people in one of the high-backed booths across from the bar; a guy leaning forward on the table to talk, a girl sitting with her legs up on the seat and her back against the wall. She was smoking a cigarette.
Kate Regan said, “I recommend the stew tonight. It's very good.”
“Yeah?” Bacon said. “Hmmm.”
Sean said, “You cook it?”
Kate looked at him briefly. “No,” she said. “We have a cook.”
“Is he in the kitchen now?”
“Yeah,” Kate said. “That's where we generally have our cook.”
Bacon smiled. “She's funny.”
“Yeah,” Sean said. To Kate he said, “Why don't you bring him out here.”
Kate Regan said, “Why don't you pay for your beers and leave.” She was not going to say anything else.
“She's tough too,” Bacon said.
Sean stepped back so she could see him pull the lapel of his jacket
back. There was a .357 revolver tucked into the waistband of his pants. He said, “See that? Good. My buddy here's going to go back to the kitchen with you. You'll come back out with the cook and then we'll help you round the customers up. Okay?”
For a moment, Kate didn't say anything. Then she nodded. Bacon followed her to the kitchen. They came back with the cook.
When they got back to the front, Kate saw that the guy with a leather jacket had pulled a black ski mask over his face. She turned and saw that the short one had done the same. The short one pulled a sawed-off shotgun from beneath his coat and directed the customers and the cook into the storeroom. He locked them in there. They took the ski masks off after that.
He came back with three cellular phones that he placed on one of the tables. He said to Sean, “Everyone's got a phone these days.”
Sean said to Kate, “Now get back behind the bar. Keep your hands on the bar. We don't see your hands, you're going to die.”
Kate took her place behind the bar. She watched as the porkpie sat in the booth opposite the bar and put his shotgun on the table. The leather jacket stayed at the bar with her.
Kate said, “I don't expect him back tonight.”
Sean said, “He's coming back, honey. I'm betting your life on it.”
She looked at the porkpied man. He was nestled back in the booth with its high backs directly across from her. From where he was sitting he could not be seen from the front door. Or from the back. He was well hidden.
Sean saw movement through the front window. He said to Kate, “You stay where he can see you.”
Sean moved to the front door. A customer got in the foyer before Sean put a hand on his chest.
“We're closed tonight, buddy. Sorry.”
“But the sign says—”
“We're closed.”
The customer sensed something dangerous about the man. He backed out. Sean moved back to the bar, but this time leaned against the part of it that was close to the door. He looked down the length of the bar at Kate Regan and made sure she had obeyed his instructions. She had; her hands were still on the bar.
Fifteen minutes went by.
In the sixteenth minute, another customer came to the front door. Sean told him the same thing he had told the other one. The guy left.
 
 
The doors to the train opened and Regan stepped out and walked past the turnstiles and down the stairs. Night and it was colder now. He used trains more than he used his Buick. Chicago traffic made for miserable driving. The trains were easier, more civilized. And he liked walking afterward. He did not mind the cold so much so long as he could walk through it.
It was an eight-block walk from the station to McGill's.
After six blocks, he fell in step about fifty yards behind another man. The man heading the same direction. He sensed the other man's walking pace and rhythm. Jack Regan was a quick, strong walker and he estimated he would overtake the man in another three blocks, if there were another three blocks left. But there weren't because the bar was on the next block.
He saw the man in front of him slow and turn into the bar.
Okay. Well, he'd be serving him drinks then.
Regan kept walking.
And, a few seconds later, saw the man come back out.
Hmmm.
The man was backing away, looking into the bar and shaking his head. Then he turned and started to walk back toward Regan.
Regan stopped him.
“Hey,” Regan said, his voice gentle. He was a big man and he did not want to frighten the fellah. “Why didn't you go in?”
“It's closed.”
Regan looked up at the street. There it was, McGill's, the sign on and everything. It was only nine thirty.
Regan said, “The sign says it's open.”
“That's what I told the guy. He said it was closed.”
Regan said, “What guy?”
“Some guy.”
Regan thought of Darrell, their cook. He said, “A young fellah, with jeans and a T-shirt?”
“No, some guy in a leather jacket. He was an asshole.”
The man walked off.
Jack Regan stood still, looking at the light emanating from McGill's. He felt his heartbeat quicken and he thought of Kate in there, but he made himself back away and put his back to the building. Then he moved back, away from the bar.
He rounded the block and came back up the alleyway, sticking to the sides. He got to the rear fire door. He looked at the door for a moment, then stepped back about ten yards. From his coat pocket he removed a Colt 1911 .45 and racked the slide and put a round in the chamber. He moved back to the fire door. He took his keys out and slowly unlocked it.
At the back of McGill's there was an area that had a storeroom and a small office. Between that area and the bar was another door. Usually, that second door was closed because they didn't want customers looking in there. If there were men in the bar now who meant to do him harm and that door was open, they would see him, maybe even hear him open the fire door. But there was nothing else he could do.
Slowly, Regan cracked the fire door open. He let it hang there for a moment. Then he widened the crack until it became a space he could step through. Then he stepped through that space and pulled the door behind him.
It was dark. Good. The second door was closed. Regan stood still
and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He could hear music from the jukebox now. Faint. Sinatra singing … what? “I Didn't Know What Time It Was.” Singing, “Warm, like the month of May it was …” They only had two Sinatra songs on the jukebox. Most of the customers these days had no idea about Sinatra. Kids. The other song was “Somethin' Stupid.” It had been on the jukebox when he and Kate returned from their wedding. Kate behind the bar in her bridal gown …
Regan stepped quietly to the second door and looked through the small dirty window. He saw a man sitting at the bar, near the front door. Black leather jacket. The man's back was to him. Then he saw Kate in the middle of the bar, closer to him. Her hands on the bar. She was standing still. Something made him hesitate, made him reluctant to charge out the door and shoot the leather jacketed man in the back.
Quietly, he opened the door and stepped into the bar. Then he stood in front of the door. He took two steps forward. Then another. Kate was on his right, about thirty feet ahead of him.
She turned slightly, catching him. Then turned her head a little more. Her expression did not change and her shoulders did not move. She looked at him for no more than two seconds. Then she turned back and stared straight ahead of her.
The booth, Regan thought. There's a second one in the booth. It had to be what she was telling him. She wasn't going to be able to give him anything else.
Regan moved his right foot and then his left …
Grand to be alive, to be young, to be mad, to be yours alone.
…
Regan moved closer, his steps as quiet as he could make them, the .45 in his right hand, loose, but fingers ready to close and squeeze …
Grand to see your face, feel your touch, hear your voice say I'm all your own!
Kate turning away from him now, looking at the leather jacketed man at the front, subconsciously making the person in the booth look that way too …
Regan eight feet from the booth now …
I didn't know what year it was, life was—
Regan swung in front of the booth, watched the eyes of the man wearing a porkpie hat go wide as Regan pointed the .45 and shot him twice in the chest. The porkpie man hammered back into the corner, dead, and Regan turned as Kate ducked behind the bar and Regan walked quickly toward the leather jacketed man, who was turning now. Regan shot him in the shoulder and Regan saw the man's gun flip up into the air and hit the ground before he did. The man reaching for it on the ground and Regan put another round in the man's back, heard it go through and boom into the floor.
Then Regan was standing over him.
The man in the leather jacket was still breathing.
“Kate,” Regan said. “Kate! The one in the booth. Is he dead?”
“Yeah.”
“Get his shotgun.”
Regan kicked the man on the ground.
“Turn over boy, so I can get a look at you.” Regan kicked him again. “Come on.”
“I can't.”
Regan crouched down and put the muzzle of the gun against the man's rib cage. He turned him over.
Sean said, “Christ.” He was spitting out words. “Where did you come from?” He spoke as a gracious loser does at a card game. He seemed almost to be smiling.
Sean Rizza.
Regan said, “I guess Max made some calls, huh?”
“That he did, Jack.” Sean Rizza shuddered. A moment later, he was able to speak again. “I'm sorry. It's my brother, Jack. It's blood.”
“Yeah,” Regan said. “It's blood.”
Sean gasped for a few seconds. After he got air, he said, “Jack, I'm sorry about her. About your—wife … We weren't going to hurt her … I swear.”
“Ah, Sean. I wish I could believe that.” Regan turned to see Kate putting the shotgun on the bar. Her hands were shaking, but she wasn't showing much stress beyond that. She was a tough one.
Regan turned back to Sean and said, “You ready?”
Sean took a few more gasping breaths.
“Yeah,” he said. “Go ahead.”
The people in the storage room winced as they heard one more gunshot.

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