Hot Wire (15 page)

"You alone?" He unlatched the outer door to let me in, checking the street before he closed the door again. "Things been kind of weird around here lately."

"Yeah." I shivered and rubbed my hands together, dripping on the mat in his foyer. "I parked a couple blocks away."

"Come on in the kitchen."

I followed him through the dark living room into his overheated kitchen and sat down at the linoleum table by the window. Rain beaded the fogged glass. A pipe clanked in the steam radiator by the stove.

"You want some coffee?" He lit a burner with a wooden match. "All I got's Instant, but I was just gonna make some more."

"Yeah," I said. "Thanks."

He lit a cigarette off the burner, then filled a teapot at the sink and put it on to boil. Running a hand through his gray hair, he looked bent and tired, his eyes baggy, the sleeves of his T-shirt hanging off his skinny arms. Coughing a little, he rummaged through a cabinet, then set two cups on the table. I could feel him checking me out.

"You OK?" He sat down and blew smoke at the ceiling. "You look like crap."

"Yeah, I don't feel so hot."

"What the hell's going on?" he asked, leaning forward on his elbows. "I went over to the place yesterday and Deke's shut down. The station's closed. He cleared all his stock off the lot and the cops been cruising by more than normal. I seen an unmarked car go by two hours ago and another one just before you showed up. Just circling around the neighborhood."

"I don't know, Vincent." I couldn't see any point in getting him involved any more than I already had. "I haven't talked to him for a couple days."

"You in trouble with Deke?" He squinted at me – suspicious – then took his glasses out of his pocket and put them on, frowning at me in the rainy light from the window. "He calls up wondering where the hell you are and the next thing I know you drag in like a drowned rat looking for a piece and you don't want to talk about it."

"Deacon called you?"

"Yesterday morning."

"Did you see Heberto?"

"Hell, no." He coughed up some smoke. "I ain't seen Herb and I ain't seen any of his goddamn wetbacks and I don't want to see them, neither. There's some kind of crap going on and I hope you know what you're doing, that's all I got to say."

The water started boiling. He got to his feet, stiff and slow, picked up the cups and walked over to the stove.

"I've known Deke for twenty years," he said, mixing the coffee. "He bailed me out more than once and he loaned me the down payment on the Hot Box. I knew your old man for a long time and I tried to do what I could after the accident, but me and Deke go back a long way and I don't want to get stuck in the middle. Understand? You know I'll help you if I can, but I'm not selling you any guns if you're in a jam with Deacon."

"This is something different." I checked my watch. I had to meet Brown in the Brennan's parking lot in two hours. "It's got nothing to do with Deacon or I wouldn't even be here."

"All right." He gave me a cup of Folgers. "Anybody else and I'd tell them to go fuck themselves."

I hated lying to him, but what could I say? He walked out of the kitchen and came back a few minutes later with a cardboard box that smelled like oil. Putting it on the floor by his chair, he got his coffee and sat down, then he pulled a towel out of the box and spread it on the table.

"These are from that dealer job in Richmond," he said, taking a drink of coffee. "Nice and clean, but I don't got the papers. Most of the haul went east, but I picked up a couple."

He started taking guns out of the box and laying them on the towel. They were all Glocks, the black polymer auto-loaders popular in drive-bys and action flicks.

"Got four standards and a couple sub-compacts," he said, tapping each model with a finger. "The 17L's a nine with a 10-shot magazine. Good for concealed carry. The 21's a .45 but this one's got the 13-round mag like the cops use and that's probably too big for carrying around. The 31 and 33 are .357 magnums. Nine rounds. The 33's the smallest .357 they got – 195 grams loaded." He picked it up, worked the chamber, then set it down again. "I got the 19 and the 23 in sub-compacts, but you probably don't want the 23. It's a .40 and I got like one box of ammo. The 19's a nine with a 10-round mag, one in the chamber. I got plenty for that and it's probably light enough for you to handle."

"How much for the 19?" I asked, picking it up and sighting on the floor. The grip felt OK.

"Retail's around five-hundred," he said, "so make it two and make the ammo ten for a box. I got the Remington hollow points. Fifty to a box."

"Give me one box." I took out my wallet and spread twenties across the table. "If I need more than that, I'm screwed anyway."

"You want a holster? I got a couple of those belt-slide jobs." He sipped at his coffee, his glasses reflecting the raindrops on the window. "They work pretty good under a jacket."

"I don't know," I said, counting my money. "I'm getting kind of strapped."

"Don't worry about it." He leaned over, dug around in the box and tossed a black leather holster on the table. "Straight drop with the bottom of the slide coverage cut off so the muzzle's exposed."

"Thanks, Vincent." I loaded the clip, popped it back in, then stood up and holstered the gun. It felt nice and light.

"Not bad," Vincent said, looking me over. "It's got that triple-safety trigger deal, so it can't go off by accident if you fall down or something."

I checked the time again, then pulled on my coat and finished off my coffee, staring out the window. We were on the second floor and I had a clear view of the alley below. The rain had picked up, spattering the trash cans by the gate leading to the front yard, dripping off a hedge that separated Vincent's house from the apartment building next door. A TV flickered in one of the windows. Weeds and brush thrashed in the wind. Just then, the gate opened and a man in a hooded slicker walked into the alley and stopped right below me, scanning the house. He didn't look like a meter reader or a bum or a neighbor taking a short cut. I stepped back from the window and Vincent frowned when he saw my face.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked.

Somebody knocked on the front door.

#

"What the hell?" Vincent got to his feet and started towards the living room, then he remembered the guns and came back to the table, gathering them in the towel and lowering the bundle into the box. "You got something you want to tell me?"

"Don't answer it," I said.

"Why the hell not?"

"I better go out the back."

"Just keep your pants on." He picked up the box. "Maybe it's the mail man or something."

"There's a guy in the alley."

"What're you talking about?" He peered out the window. "I don't see nothing out there."

He was right. The man in the slicker had vanished.

"I stayed too long," I said, flinching when the knock came again. "I better get out of here now."

"Just hang on." He came off relaxed, but he must've picked up on my vibes because he carried the box out of the kitchen, then came back a minute later with a Mossberg .12 gauge pump. "Let's have a look before you run off half-cocked. Maybe it's one of them junkies that hangs around the park. We get those freaks all the time."

I pulled out my Glock and chambered a round.

"Just take it easy," he said.

I followed him through the living room into the foyer and he waved me back to one side, bending over to look through the peep hole in the door. An oval of soft gray light angled across the floral wallpaper, reflecting on a picture of an old lady with her hair tied up in a bun. The rain pattered on the roof and windows and I could hear water splashing through a drain pipe. Nobody made a sound on the porch.

"Nobody there," he whispered, squinting at me in the shadows. "Them junkies like to test doors, see if you're home. Maybe they went on down the street."

I looked through the peep hole and got this fish-eye view of rain and parked cars and an empty porch. Then, out of nowhere, a couple of warped shadows loomed in front of me and somebody kicked the door hard, whacking my forehead and knocking me back across the floor. I rolled over, dropped the Glock, picked it up again and staggered into the living room. Whoever was outside crashed into the door again: a heavy thud with a splintering crunch of hinges that should've brought it down. Vincent yelled something. Pumped his shotgun. Then they hit the door again and ripped the lock and chain loose and the door burst open, two shadows in rain gear stumbling into the foyer and almost falling down from their own momentum.

"Vincent!" I yelled. "Don't!"

Braced against the kick, he blasted one of them across the wall, then he pumped the shotgun and blew the other one out the door. Blinded by the flashes, orange and red blobs throbbing in my eyes, I backed towards the kitchen, my ears ringing like a couple of church bells. The foyer reeked of gunpowder and scorched hair. I heard dozens of popping sounds and Vincent staggered around in the light from the door, then he dropped the Mossberg and tumbled across the carpet, knocking over a chair. Two more shadows lurched through the door, yelling like cops, their laser sights flickering across the walls. I saw Baldy standing on the porch behind them and I let off a couple rounds, but they both went wild and everybody dived to the floor.

I ran past the kitchen and down the hall to the back of the house, banging into a side table, knocking over a lamp. Suppressors popped behind me. Bullets whacked the walls. I made the door to the stairs and fumbled with the knob, shaking and gasping, my heart pounding like it wanted out. Lasers swept the walls and ceiling. A red dot wobbled on my chest.

"Hold your fire!" Baldy yelled. "Goddammit, hold your fire!"

I yanked the door open and ducked into the stairwell, slamming the door behind me, slapping the bolt shut and cutting my hand. A smear of light rippled on the landing at the foot of the stairs. I took a couple steps, grabbed for a railing, then tumbled head over heels and smacked my nose on a wooden floor. The gun landed beside me, but it didn't go off. I could hear Baldy and his crew banging around upstairs, yelling and pounding on the door.

The basement smelled like oil and cut grass. A pilot light fluttered in a draft. I picked up the Glock, then got to my feet and blundered around in the dark, cracking my head against a pipe, tripping over boxes. Then I saw a light in a window. A back door. I fumbled at the bolt, got it open, and fell down in a puddle full of scum. The rain lashed my face. I crawled up a flight of concrete steps, scraping my knees and elbows, then I cleared some weeds on the edge of the top step and checked out the situation. I was in the alley that ran beside the house. Nobody was around. I got up and ran into the back yard, knocking over a trash can.

"Freeze!" somebody yelled.

The guy I had seen from Vincent's window crouched by the side of the house, his slicker dripping, a gun in his hand. He had the drop on me, but he looked rattled, like he didn't know what had happened with all the shooting and hadn't expected me to blunder into the yard like that. I slowed down when I saw him, but I kept walking towards this tree by the garage, angling for cover.

"Stop right there!" He scuttled sideways in a firing stance, tracking me with his gun. "Drop it! Do it now!" He could have blown me away, but he must have had orders to take me alive so I could give them the Lexus. Yelling commands and trying to keep his eyes on me, he stepped in a puddle or something, lost his balance and looked down for just a second.

I shot him in the head. Didn't even think about it.

A red mist puffed from his hood and he fell down in the weeds, rolling over and twitching, his face in the mud.

#

I was in shock. I don't know. I ran across the yard and scrabbled over a chain-link fence, landing in an alley lined with dumpsters, telephone poles and garages with tile roofs and corrugated-iron siding. Somebody yelled behind me. Baldy and his crew must've worked their way around and come out in the yard, but I didn't stop to check and took off down the alley. My chest hurt and I had this taste of blood in my throat. Dodging pot holes full of dead leaves and water, I ducked into a passage that ran between a garage and a cinderblock building with graffiti all over the walls. Dogs started barking. I climbed another fence, ripping my jeans, and came out on the next block.

Headlights turned the corner. I ran into the street, pointing my gun at the car, yelling at them to stop and hoping they weren't part of Baldy's crew. An old lady gaped at me through the clacking wipers, tried to veer to one side, then slammed on her brakes at the last minute. I ran around to the driver's side, slipping on the blacktop, and yanked open the door before she could think to lock it.

"Get out!" I yelled. "Get out of the car!"

She was this grandma type with glasses and hair like cotton candy. I grabbed the sleeve of her coat and tried to pull her out of the car, but she was strapped in, so I had to fumble with her seat belt while she squealed and slapped at me with both hands. When I got the belt off, I dragged her out of the car, dumped her on the street, then got in and slammed the door, putting it in gear and stomping on the gas. The car smelled of talcum powder and damp linen. The old lady's purse was on the seat and I tossed it out the window. Maybe she would find it. Maybe she would go to church and light a candle for the scumbag who had jacked her car. When I checked the rearview, I saw Baldy and two guys standing in the middle of the street, watching me drive away while the rain whipped across the pavement. I took the first right, floored it for three blocks, ran a stop sign, then took another right, sobbing like a baby.