Simple Intent (23 page)

By the time DeLuca pulled through the iron gates of the Philadelphia Country Club he was calm and centered. The men waiting for him in the private room upstairs were neither.

Judge Shanahan half-rose from his chair and pointed a crooked finger across the table. His hand shook as he tried to curb his anger, “You little fuck! You shite!” Beads of sweat popped out on the man’s forehead, and small blue veins pulsed at his temples. “We had a deal, we had a deal.”

Ted Montgomery put a hand on his arm, “Come on Judge. Sit down. He’s not worth it.”

Shanahan looked down at the cool, reserved Montgomery. He felt his heart curiously close to the surface and for a moment forgot where he was. A quick glance around the room reminded him he was in a place where you didn’t jump out of your chair or point your finger at a mobster and call him a little shite. Not if you ever wanted to see your lovely Kate again you didn’t. He slumped back in his chair and mopped his forehead with a white linen napkin.

Jeremy Strom stood outside the door listening to every outburst. He placed a name to the voice and imagined where each body was around the table. He closed his eyes for a second, a mental snapshot of the room flashed. He’d been three steps inside five minutes ago and already knew two ways to get out of there quickly if something went down. And that there was enough room behind the oak bar in the southwest corner if he had to get Eddie to cover. He checked his watch. Where was Deluca, anyway? 

Gallo continued. “As I was saying, we think it’s best to hold off on the strike for two more days. There’s a shipment coming in we can’t afford to miss. Once they pull the cops off the site, we’ll have our guys back in line and move the merchandise as planned. When the strike hits and the goods are tied up, we’ll be the only source. And the price will be ours to set.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Shanahan turned to Montgomery. “Isn’t that what they said last month? I did not drive all the way out here to have you numb nuts tell me what I already know.”

Deluca walked in. “I hear you, Judge. What I want to know is, when do I get my money, and who’s doing the holding before the split?

Reilly told himself a jog would do him good. He locked up with Sailor’s key then went to his apartment to change. He’d left the TV on and the cell phone open. It was dead and the charger was at work. Reilly had almost forgotten the call to his dealer. Almost. 

He went to his bedroom, strapped on a waist pack to hold money and keys and stretched on the way down in the elevator. By the time he reached the lobby his resolve had faded, but he figured he’d give it a go anyway. Three blocks later, he wished he’d stayed in bed.

He felt his firm, muscular legs straining and pumping beneath him and thought, I’m in good shape, what the hell am I doing killing myself here?

Had he gone one more block, he might have pushed through to the other side. He knew the place where pain feels good and endorphins pulse. That place where you’re smiling on the inside. An addict knows that place. Reilly knew that place. He slowed to a walk, crossed the street, bought a paper and a coffee and walked back home to the condos, where a car from MDB&S was coming to pick him up for a meeting in New York City.

White Shoes wanted to crack the guy over the head and knock a little sense into him, shake him up and re-arrange the marbles. They argued the whole ride down, about not pausing at yield signs, merging too slowly onto the highway, failing to come to a complete stop. It was more than his driving. It was the way the bonehead thought. He swore he should have taken Junior out a long time ago. He glanced over. Son of a bitch was smiling. 

“What’s so funny, JR?”

“Nothing,” JR said. “I’m just in a good mood.”

“A good mood? What the fuck is that? Cause of you, Four Eyes is in the hospital, you said yourself, you ain’t been laid in a week, and right back there,” White Shoes jerked his thumb over his shoulder, “when you ran that stop sign, you said you hated this fucking city and couldn’t wait to move to the shore. You call that a good mood?”

“Hey, White Shoes, settle down. I was just ranting back there. That don’t affect my mood.”

“Ranting?”

“Yeah, you know, getting shit off my chest. It’s healthy.”

“Might be healthy for you. But it ain’t so healthy for those of us who gotta hear it. Know what I mean?”

JR started to whistle.

White Shoes shook his head. “Ke-rist.” He read the street numbers, checked the paper in his hand. “Hey, Happy.” He pointed to a building on the left. “There it is.” 

Swerving across three lanes of traffic, JR crossed the median and pulled up in front of Oakwood Condominiums with White Shoes firmly attached to the Jesus handle. 

JR read, “‘Luxury furnished Corporate apartments for temporary or long-term lease.’ That sounds real nice.” 

White Shoes rolled his eyes. “Come on. Get the tools.”

JR opened the back of the van, pulled out two metal toolboxes and three orange cones.

“What the fuck?” 

“Makes us look official,” JR said, setting the cones around the vehicle. “And this way, we won’t get a ticket.”

“I’m driving on the way back, you hear me?” White Shoes pulled his ball cap low over his forehead then lifted one of the toolboxes and started up the steps.

No one bothered them in the vestibule of mailboxes. No one looked twice as they jangled their way down the halls of the condominium complex. Everyone knew the sound of a service worker. The clomp of heavy-soled shoes, the rasping bark of a smoker’s cough, the smack and rattle of a full metal toolbox. No one thought anything unusual about two men in blue coveralls entering Sailor’s apartment.

“Nice.” JR twisted his ball cap around so the bill shadowed his neck. “I could live in a place like this.” He ran his hand over the couch, straightened a pillow on the side chair. “Except I’d want more leather, and maybe a lighter shade of yellow on the walls.”

“What are you, a faggot? Get the fuck in here.”

White Shoes stood in the dining room in front of the wall of photos from the retirement party.

JR pointed. “Hey look, that’s you.”

White Shoes squinted. Son of a bitch, it was he, at Berger’s party, talking to that redhead with the rack. 

“Who’s she, White Shoes? Nice set.” JR ran his finger over the breasts in the photograph.

“Yeah, yeah.” 

White Shoes pushed the guy’s hand away and skimmed the other photos. There was Berger with the Judge, Berger with Deluca, and Berger with his cop buddies and some young red-haired Mick who was always smiling. How did they miss somebody with a camera that night? Gallo was right. This girl was in it deep. Who the fuck was the beat up black dude in the mug shot? And why were all the lines coming back to him? 

“Look at these books. Think she read them all?” JR lifted two law books, hefting them like weights. “Man, they’re heavy.”

“Put those down. Lou said don’t disturb nothing. Just find the computer, then start on the phones.” White Shoes reached in his pocket, took out a CD, handed it to JR. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Sure. No problem.”

Reilly reached into the waist pack for his apartment key and came up with Sailor’s instead. He looked down the hall toward her place, smiled, then dug around some more and found his own key. 

Inside, he dropped the paper in the kitchen and looked around. It was still early; too early to get dressed, too late to go back to bed. What was he supposed to do? He went to the bedroom and checked his stash drawer. Nothing. He went through pants pockets, jackets, even the trash can. Then he remembered the black binder, the one he’d used at Sailor’s last night, the one with the little pocket in the back.

White Shoes said, “Did you hear that?’ 

“What?”

“Someone’s coming.”

JR’s eyes widened as the key turned in the lock. He slipped into the dining room and hid behind a small palm tree. White Shoes ducked behind the couch. The guy walked in like he knew his way around. White Shoes wondered if maybe they had the wrong apartment. JR crawled under the table, pulled a chair in close behind him.

Reilly headed straight for the stacks of books and files in the dining room. JR watched the feet approach, recognized the shoes. His kid wanted the same kind.

The feet moved around the table. JR heard books sliding, a pencil rolling across the table. He heard a zipper, pages being turned. 

Reilly said, “Hello, beautiful,” then sat with his knees inches from JR’s face.

JR looked around. Who the fuck was he talking to? 

Reilly reached into the waist pack, removing a credit card and a ten-dollar bill. On the table, he opened the tiny baggie from the binder pocket and dumped the contents on the table. He cut two fat lines with the card and looked at the coke, felt his mouth water, his insides tighten then loosen and told himself this was it, the last time. Just finish this shit and that would be it, he wouldn’t buy anymore. He rolled up the ten, held it just inside his nostril and snorted the first line, then closed his eyes and pinched his nose, never noticing the man behind him with the gun.

White Shoes said, “Hey, Howdy-Doody.” 

Reilly jumped. “Whatthefuck!”

“Didn’t anybody ever tell you, drugs are not your friend?’ Reilly twisted round to look at the guy. “Who the hell are you?”

JR climbed out from under the table. “That’s not the question, pal. The question is, who are you?”

Reilly sat there thinking the way these guys looked and talked could only mean one thing. He looked at the bill in his hand, the line on the table. “I guess you could say I’m somebody you need,” he said. Then he bent forward, snorted the other line and smiled. 

Gina checked on Hi in the backseat. He was still out. She saw a sign for gas and food and slowed down. The parking lot of the Convenience Mart was deserted, its sign hung askew, swinging in the breeze. For a minute she thought the store was closed, but she could see a faint light through the dirty windows, and when she pulled up to the pump, everything worked fine. 

As she headed round the side of the building to find the restroom she got that creepy feeling, like someone was watching. She imagined this would be the moment she’d look back on and say, “If only...” 

Gina felt stupid as she stood there thinking defeatist thoughts, so she shook it off and tugged on the sticky door of the bathroom. Nothing jumped out at her, there wasn’t anything behind the door. The light worked fine. She was pleasantly surprised to find a full roll of toilet paper and a working flusher. She took a moment at the sink to rinse her face, apply some lipstick, and smooth her hair. She tried a thin smile, the one she used when she paid the clerk for the gas and coffee.

She had driven from city to town to village, and now, two miles down the road, the landscape changed again. Dense forest replaced houses and farms and streams. Gina turned up the air-conditioner and was fumbling with the radio reception when the deer stepped onto the road.

SOME people believe things just happen. They sit back like a baby in a tub balanced over a kitchen sink, trusting in the sturdiness of the molded plastic and someone else’s hands. Jeremy Strom wasn’t like that. The guys who worked out at Mick’s Gym weren’t like that. They knew you had to make things happen and you could only trust your own hands.

Mick’s was open twenty-four hours. But that was just one of the reasons Jeremy loved the place. Mick’s Gym had substance. It hadn’t gone metro like the rest of them. There were gyms that called themselves health clubs–—all slick and neon, with surgery-enhanced babes in spandex serving wheat grass and protein shakes to overpaid executives. Those same clubs had members who exercised only until they broke a sweat, then paid sixty bucks for a massage and drove back to the office to write the whole thing off. 

No, Mick’s was the real deal. Real sweat, real iron, real men. It was all about the body and what it could do today, right now. Nothing else mattered: not tomorrow, not next week, and definitely not wheat grass.

Jeremy pulled on his gloves and went to work. Escaping into his routine, he forgot about the job and Sailor and what Deluca wanted him to do.

The clerk made room for Deluca and the ledgers at her small square desk. She’d been reluctant to allow him to sit there, but he’d said, “Please. I won’t be long,” and looked at her in that Fast Eddie way. So what was she going to do? 

She slid her picture frames to the edge of the desk and removed a potted plant. Deluca sat, feeling the heat in the seat of the chair. He glanced at the pictures of the clerk’s family. They stood in a parking lot, the sticker of a rental agency on the Hyundai behind them. The husband, a thin, slack-jawed man, held the hand of a toddler in a stained t-shirt that read, ‘Brat’. No one was smiling. 

The clerk returned to her filing as Deluca flipped open the first ledger. He remembered Gina saying something a few months ago when they were talking about getting away from it all.

She’d said, “If I could go anywhere, I’d probably just go back.”

“Go back where?” he’d asked.

“To Dauphin County. I have the best memories of that place. Maybe that’s dumb. I mean, I’m sure nothing is the same as it used to be. But I can’t help wondering...”