Callie's Last Dance (a Donovan Creed Novel) (12 page)

37.

Willow & Carmine.

Present Time.

“YOU KILLED ROY? Are you crazy?”

“I killed him for you.”

“You’re definitely crazy!” Carmine says.

“Crazy about you. I wanted to do something nice for you.”

“Roy’s a made man. If anyone finds out—”

“They won’t.”

“Your fuckin’
name’s
on the car!”

“My rental car was stolen, far as the police know.”

Carmine’s taking it worse than she expected. She says, “Roy told some of the girls he was going to take you down. I couldn’t sit by and let that happen. Plus, he threatened me.”

“I
told
you to watch your step. He ain’t right in the head.”

“I know.”

“You shot him?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’d you get the gun?”

“It was Bobby’s.”

“The boyfriend? Wait. You didn’t kill him
too
, did you?”

“Of course not!
Jesus
, Carmine!”

“Hey, I
had
to ask.”

“I guess.”

“And Gwennie helped you?”

“Yes.”

“But how? You only blew into town how many days ago?”

“Four.”

“And you met me three days ago.”

“So?”

“Now you’re hotwiring cars, killing made men, turning Gwennie into an accomplice. Next thing you know—”

“I hired Gwen.”

“You what?”

“Hired her. To run the girls. For the Top Six.”

“How the fuck?”

“I told you I’ve got a wonderful business sense.”

“Gwen’s going to run my girls?”

“Gwen and I are going to triple your business. If you’ll give us the chance.”

“How?”

“We’ve got plans.”

“You’re making me very nervous, young lady.”

“Can I be frank? You’re acting like an atheist at a Pentecostal convention. But think about it. Roy was your biggest threat. I got rid of him. Gwen coming back was your greatest wish. I got her for you. I was your greatest desire, and now I’m yours. Anything you want, anything you need…you get. No matter what it takes. Just let me in, sweetheart. Let me into your business.”

“You can hotwire a car?”

“Yes.”

“Will you teach me?”

“If you’re a good boy.”

He leans over, kisses her breast.

Then says, “That took balls, killing Roy.”

“You see any balls down there?”

“Not really.”

“Maybe you should take a closer look…”

38.

Donovan Creed.

Cincinnati.

THE PILOT TURNS and points a grim finger at the fighter jets on the runway.

“We should wait till they move, sir.”

“Yeah, but I’m in a hurry.”

“They’re blocking the runway.”

I’m running late because of some work I had the geeks perform this morning, and Callie just called to say she’s on her way to the private airfield in Cincinnati to pick me up. Due to a faulty igniter, the jet I flew in on has been grounded. It’s forty-five minutes to the nearest airport, and they don’t have any private jets currently available for charter anyway. So I found an old Cessna 1SP in the hangar that can be legally flown by a single pilot. Since one of the private pilots has to stay with the broken plane, I hired the other one to fly me to Cincy in the Cessna. We wasted thirty minutes fueling and checking the systems, and now the fighter pilots are back on duty, sitting in their cockpits, twiddling their thumbs. They’re not in my chain of command, which means they don’t move unless the defense department tells them to.

Unfortunately, it’s lunch hour at the Pentagon.

So here at Sensory, the fighter jets continue to sit at the far end of the runway, blocking our takeoff.

“You’ve got plenty of room, don’t you?” I say.

“Technically, yes. But it’s never a good idea to take off on a runway that’s in use. I could lose my license.”

“Those fighter pilots think they’re hot shit,” I say.

“They do indeed, sir.”

“You know they’re sitting there laughing at us.”

“I expect you’re right, sir.”

I move from the cabin to the cockpit and strap myself into the co-pilot’s chair and say, “What’s your name, son?”

“James Rogers.”

“What do your friends call you, Jimmy?”

“Buck, sir.”

“Buck Rogers?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I like that.”

“Are you planning to fly us, sir?”

“No. But maybe it’s time I asked you a question.”

“Sir?”

“Who’s the real pilot here, son? You? Or those guys?”

“
Me
, sir.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then let’s show ’em what we’re made of.”

“For real?”

“You know you want to.”

“I do. But you can’t just go around doing whatever you want all the time.”

“Of course not. But you can do whatever you want when your cause is just.”

“What
is
our cause, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“True love.”

“Sir?”

“Can there possibly be a more noble cause?”

“Uh…”

“Light the fires and kick the tires!”

“Sir?”

“Make them shit their pants, son.”

“Yes, sir!”

He revs up the engine and taxis onto the runway. Then looks at me and says, “Aren’t you even the least bit nervous?”

“Not at all,” I say.

“Can I ask why?”

“Only three runways in the world make me nervous, Buck. One, Paro, in Bhutan, where only eight pilots in the world are certified to land, and even they can’t do it without setting off all the cockpit warning sirens. Two, Matekane, in Lesotho, where the too-short runway suddenly ends at the edge of a 2,000-foot cliff and your plane is forced to plummet downward until it gains enough altitude to clear the mountain in front of you. And three, Barra International, in Scotland, where the runway is made of sand and disappears twice a day at high tide. These are tough runways, son. Not this one.”

“But the fighter jets.”

“We’ll clear them with forty feet to spare.”

As it turned out we cleared them with only twenty feet to spare. By then, Buck’s drunk on the adrenalin rush, and we laugh and joke about the experience all the way to Cincinnati, where he touches us down safely, and taxis to our assigned drop off area.

I point at Callie’s limo, entering the gate.

“There she is, Buck!” I say. “Wait till you see her!”

Buck brings us to a stop and winds down the engines. Then fusses with the old door till it finally opens. I descend the stairs to find Callie out of the car, running toward me. We have one of those Hallmark moments as we catch each other in a warm embrace, and share our first kiss.

And our second.

I’m going to pause here and freely admit I’m not an overly-emotional, touchy-feely kind of guy. So I’ll spare you such details as the “surge of happiness” I’m feeling, and how “right” it seems, and how “time stood still” as we kissed, and all that crap. I’ll keep to myself how my heart’s pounding and do my best to refrain from all girly descriptions of how her lips seemed to hunger for mine, and how our passion “soared to heights unmatched by those who’ve loved before.”

First of all, it wouldn’t be true. I mean, how can I say you haven’t felt the exact same thing when you kissed the man or woman of your dreams? What right do I have to suggest our first kiss was any more special than yours?

None.

I’ll simply say that kissing Callie was the greatest feeling I’ve ever known, a moment I’ll never forget.

It probably didn’t hurt knowing in a couple of hours I’ll be in her pants.

39.

CALLIE’S IN A sundress, I’m wearing a blazer and jeans, and holding a legal-sized folder when mid-west crime boss Sal Bonadello accepts us into his office. His face is ashen, completely devoid of the humor one can normally find playing around his eyes.

He’s pissed.

Really, really pissed.

So angry, he doesn’t flirt with Callie when we take our seats. This is a first, in my experience. I wonder if I underestimated his reaction to Frankie’s death.

He points a finger at Callie. “
You
killed Frankie?”

“Yes, sir.”

“On my orders, Sal,” I say.

He keeps his eyes trained on Callie and says, “You live in Vegas?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Nice place?”

“Nice enough.”

“Carpet in your living room? Or hardwood floors?”

“Marble,” she says.

“Marble,” he repeats. “That
is
nice. What about your den?”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Your den. Is it carpeted?”

She looks at me. I shrug. She looks back at him and says, “Yes, Sal. My den is carpeted.”

“Tell me, my dear. What color is the carpet in your den?”

“Sage.”

“Sage?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a color?”

“It is.”

He shakes his head. “What is that, some sort of light brown?”

“It’s more of a muted green, with greyish undertones.”

“Greyish undertones,” he says. “Sounds expensive.” He pauses a moment, then says, “How much does something like that cost, ah—whatcha call—per yard?”

“I don’t remember.”

“No?”

“Not off-hand.”

“But expensive, am I right?”

“I guess.”

“You’re not sure? Because it sounds pretty—whatcha call—impressive to me.”

“I’d say it’s definitely upscale.”

“Sal,” I say.

“Huh?”

“Are you okay?”

He looks at me through smoldering eyes and says, “Have you taken a shit today?”

“Excuse me?”

He checks his watch. “It’s two twenty-eight. I was just wondering if you’ve taken your daily shit yet.”

“And this is important to you because?”

“Because I haven’t shit yet today. And I feel a huge one working its way through my colon.”

We’re two men looking at each other, one furious, one confused.

I finally say, “I hope you can hold it in till we’re finished here.”

“You’d like that?”

“If it’s not too much to ask.”

He looks at Callie and says, “I wonder if you’d be so kind as to lift up your dress so I can shit in your lap.”

“I think not,” she says.

“No? Well how about I fly to Vegas this afternoon, walk into your beautiful home, and take a big, fat, greasy shit on the upscale sage-green carpet in the middle of your fucking den. Would that be okay with you?”

“No.”

“Really? Because you seem to have no problem taking my money for a simple hit, and shitting all over
me
! Maybe I’ve got too much respect. Too much—whatcha call—consideration. Too much decency. It’s what prevents me from getting up from my desk, dropping my pants, and shitting in your lap.”

“That, and the fact I’d kill you before you got your fly unzipped,” she says.

“You’re deadly in small numbers,” he says, “In close quarters. I’ll give you that. But I don’t operate with small numbers. I don’t play in close quarters. And
you
crossed the line.”

“We had a reason for our actions,” I say.

“Much as I adore you both, I’m—whatcha call—devastated by what you’ve done.”

He slams his hand on his desk and yells, “Frankie was a
made man
!”

He slams the desk again. “A
captain
! My top earner!”

“I realize that.”

“You realize that.”

He looks at Callie and says, “He realizes that. I feel so much better.”

To me, he says, “I’ll require an explanation. And it better be the best fucking explanation I ever heard in my life, or I’ll require—whatcha call—retri—retri—”

“Retribution?” I say.

“No.”

“Remuneration?”

“Tribute. I’ll require tribute. In the form of money and a life. Your money, Callie’s life. And if you refuse to pay? We’ll be more than enemies. We’ll be at war.”

He suddenly slaps the table again. “Because I
will
be respected!”

Slaps it again. “I
will
be consulted before you kill my people!”

“Are you ready to hear my explanation?” I say.

“Not yet. Three things, before you speak.”

“Go ahead.”

“One.”

“Yes?”

“Put yourself in my position.”

“What do you mean?”

“This lovely young lady sitting in front of me. Callie Carpenter.”

“What about her?”

“She works for you. Reports to you.”

“So?”

“She’s got a girlfriend, yes?”

“For the sake of this conversation, let’s say yes.”

“I’m told her name is Gwen,” Sal says.

“Leave Gwen out of this,” Callie says.

“Please, dear. Hear me out while I speak to Mr. Creed. Because your life is literally on the line today.”

To me, he says, “Suppose you paid me money—for whatever reason—to kill Gwen, but I take it upon myself to not only kill Gwen, but Callie as well. Without even
discussing
it with you. Is there any
possible
explanation I could give you that would be—whatcha call—sufficient? That would sit well with the others who work for you? Is there any explanation I could give that would satisfy
you
as to why I killed your top person? Anything I could say that would allow you to forgive me?”

“Only one.”

“Then that’s the explanation I better hear. And the second thing?”

“Yeah?”

“I hope you don’t plan to tell me you killed Frankie because he would have been furious with me for killing his wife, and that he would have come after me, tried to kill me.”

“Why wouldn’t that be a good reason?”

“Because he personally approved the hit on Angie. Because his kids are grown and he had a new girlfriend he wanted to marry.”

“I hadn’t heard.”

“It’s true.”

“Do tell.”

“And third?” Sal says.

“Yeah?”

“I hope you don’t plan to tell me you killed Frankie because you found out he and Sophie were dealing drugs. Because I’m part of that deal.”

“You are?”

“Yeah. Now go ahead and give me your reason for killing the top person in my entire organization without my permission.”