The Last Kind Words (5 page)

“No. I don’t do armed robbery.”

“They didn’t get much cash but they made her give up her jewelry. Everything was junk except for a gold pendant given to her by my grandmother. Inside were two tiny photos of my great-grandparents, taken in Hungary back in the thirties. It’s the only thing left of them. It wasn’t just sentimental, you know? It’s more meaningful than that.”

She wasn’t talking about a pendant but a locket. I nodded. “I think I understand.”

“Any chance you can help me get it back?”

A stickup already six months old. Unless the piece was exceptional and really stood out, there wasn’t going to be much of a shot. But I knew all the fences and could probably get a line on the punk snatcher. I looked into Kimmy’s eyes and liked what I saw there. They were almost mean but I could see a little softness tucked deep inside. I wondered
what had happened to her to give her such a hard shell so early on and decided I wanted to hang around long enough to find out.

“If your aunt’s got a photo of herself wearing the locket, give it to me. If not, have her describe it in detail. Any extra information can only help.”

Kimmy was a step ahead. She handed me a photo. There was a stickum note on the back with all the relevant info, including the name and address of the shop and the date and time of the robbery. “This is it.”

“Give me four days. If I can’t get a line on it by then there isn’t anything that can be done.”

She said, “Thank you,” without an ounce of real gratitude. “So … Friday night then?”

“I’ll pick you up.”

She frowned, came this close to hitting me with a sneer. “You don’t know where I live.”

“Sure I do.”

When she climbed into my car four days later the locket was waiting for her on the dashboard. She checked the tiny photos inside, then stuck it in her pocket.

“What did it cost you to get it back?”

“Nothing, the fence owed me one.”

“Did you talk to the guy who stole it?”

“No.”

I couldn’t read the expression on her face in the shadowed interior of the car. I turned up the dash lights.

“I thought maybe you’d have to fight him for it,” she said.

“You wanted me to fight him for it, that right?”

I watched as her lips parted into a grin and then a smile. She kissed the side of my face. It was nothing more than a peck but it started to do its thing.

I said, “Take off the scarf.”

“Why?”

“I want to see your hair.”

“Why?”

“Take off the fucking scarf, right?”

She pulled it down until it was around her neck, then shook out her hair. It was shorter than I’d thought, but the way it framed her face added to everything else I liked about her. My breathing began to grow rough. So did hers. I leaned in and she backed away until the side of her head pressed against the passenger window. I got my hand looped through the scarf and used it to draw her to me. I drove to the dead end at the bottom of the block and then we kissed and she giggled against my chest, and when she bit my neck I growled and we fell into the backseat, tearing each other’s clothes off.

Twenty minutes later I lit us both cigarettes and asked, “You’re beautiful but you don’t like it—why?”

“I do. I just never felt that way before.”

“Before what?”

“Before you, asshole.”

Crawling out of the shallows JFK growled while his fur dripped mud and water. I spotted a black Mercedes filled with dark suits and rigid faces at the curb. It was starting already.

Wes Zek got out from behind the wheel. That showed me right there that the Thompson crew were still second-raters. Your driver is never the muscle. Your driver never gets out of the car. Wes had taken the keys out of habit and held them in his left hand. Now if anything happened to him, the others were stranded at the curb.

He looked like he’d been promoted from crew to captain and wasn’t pleased with it. A hundred-and-fifty-dollar haircut, wraparound shades, and a fancy black sports jacket to hide his piece. Couldn’t have been anything larger than a .32 considering how small the bulge was under his arm. Despite the kick up in what he earned, he looked stressed, harried. He’d lost weight but it didn’t look good on him.

I said, “Hello, Wes. A little early in the day for you all to be doing business, isn’t it?”

“We’re still up from last night. Terry, you got a few minutes?”

“Not right now.”

“Eager to get back to your run?”

“I’m going to see someone.”

He shrugged. “She doesn’t live there anymore. She took up with Chub. They got a kid now and live over—”

Before I realized it, I was off the bench and way up close to Wes. I saw my teeth in his sunglasses.

“Heya,” I said, “how about if you stay out of my business and I’ll keep out of yours, right?”

He looked a little embarrassed. “Sure, Terry, sure. Mr. Thompson would like to speak with you.”

“Junior or Senior?”

“Senior had a coronary three, four years ago and retired to Arizona. The big one hit him in Phoenix, on a golf course. We don’t call Junior Junior anymore, though. He likes Daniel or Mr. Thompson.”

My family had been doing business with the Thompsons since before Danny’s grandfather had Americanized the name from Tompansano. Danny and I were the same age and had run around together for a while in our teens.

“Fine,” I said. “My dog sits in back with your muscle. Don’t give me any shit about him muddying up your Mercedes.”

“This the beast that snuffed Bernie Wagner?”

“Yeah.”

JFK lolled his tongue and let out a belch that smelled like lake silt. I opened the back door and he hopped in and climbed over the thugs as they bitched and cursed, their suits already flecked with wet fur. Wes climbed behind the wheel and said, “Christ.”

We
drove over to the Fifth Amendment, Big Dan Thompson’s bar that fronted all the real action. The name of the place was Big Dan’s way of giving the finger to the feds, who’d been trying to build a RICO case around him for years, and doing it the way he had done almost everything, with a cocky defiance.

“Leave the dog outside, all right, Terry?” Wes asked.

“He comes with me,” I said.

Wes groaned but let it slide. “Well, wait here for a minute, okay? Will you at least do that?”

“Sure.”

It gave me time to take in the rhythm of the old place again.

I glanced at the photos on the walls. Big Dan with various celebrities, politicians, sports heroes. Some of the pictures of the old crews had been changed out, probably because so many wiseguys had flipped over the years. Big Dan once told me he’d never pulled the trigger himself unless he was shooting a rat. He said it the way my mother had said she hated Collie like poison. A thing to be mentioned, understood, held on to, then put away.

I’d had my first drink of hard liquor, seen my first thousand-dollar bill, and had my first woman here at the Amendment, all on the same day. In the back room they held private card games, where some of the waitresses earned extra cash by taking the major hitters to the private lounge. When I turned fourteen, Big Dan had invited me in and shown me the delights of that back room, all on his ticket, the same way he’d shown Danny a few weeks earlier on his birthday.

I couldn’t help grinning thinking about it again.

Now Danny Thompson sat at his father’s station, holding court at the corner table where all the real business got done. He was surrounded by a crew of five. I didn’t recognize any of them. All the old-timers had either kicked off, been sent to the bin, or retired when Danny rose up to take over. I wondered what that said about the way Danny handled the operation now.

He was giving hell to one of his captains. I picked up a few words here and there. It sounded drug-related. Danny talked loud, much too loud for discussing business. His father had never raised his voice, not even when he was furious.

Danny hadn’t aged well the last five years. He’d put on thirty pounds and looked uncomfortable as he shifted in his seat, packed into a suit a couple sizes too small for him. I could see the sweat gleaming on his face. His silky blond hair had started to recede and he had a nervous habit of brushing the back of his thumb across his prominent widow’s peak. I could imagine what it must be like for him, sitting in that chair and seeing his father everywhere he looked. He should’ve sold the place and set up shop somewhere else.

The meeting broke up and a couple of Danny’s boys walked past. The one who’d been under the gun was flushed from the berating he’d received. He had no idea who I was but he couldn’t meet my eyes. He rattled way too easy. If he was in charge of the drug trade, I could see why there were problems.

Danny looked up from the table and waved me over with two fingers, the way Big Dan used to allow passage to his corner. His son couldn’t even make that his own. I wanted to tell him,
Wave someone over with one finger, with three, use your chin, your left hand, anything except the same thing your dad did
.

JFK heeled at my left leg as we crossed the bar. I got to the table, put out my hand, and said, “Hello, Danny.”

He tightened up. First words out of my mouth and I’d already made a mistake with him. I wondered what it would cost. His eyes clouded and then immediately cleared, and he let his lips hitch into a thin smile.

He shook my hand. “Terry. You look tan. Sit down.”

Again with the fucking tan. Like Long Island didn’t have two hundred miles of shoreline beaches.

I slid into the chair across from him. JFK dropped at my feet. Wes stood nearby, ready to take orders. The rest of Danny’s men headed to the back room. The door was open and I could see the remnants of a big game, a lot of beer bottles, and a woman sleeping on one of the sofas.

“Sorry to hear about your father.”

“Thanks for saying so, even if you don’t mean it.”

Except that I did mean it, and it surprised me that Danny would think I didn’t. I’d always liked Big Dan, even if I didn’t agree with some of his practices. He scooped up a lot of my family’s goods and cut a few side deals along the way, sending me after certain specific items he wanted from rivals and occasionally even associates. He knew I could keep my mouth shut.

In all the time I knew him, I’d gone up against him only once. Chub had tuned the getaway car for a crew that had taken down a massage parlor that Big Dan fronted. The heisters blew town with fifty large, and Big Dan thought Chub ought to pay back with cash, his garage, or his legs. I asked Dan to let it slide, explaining that Chub had known nothing about the heist beforehand, even though I was certain he had. Big Dan didn’t like my asking and gave me a chance to change my mind. I didn’t. I put my hand on his wrist and asked him to let it go.

He ordered four of his men to kick the shit out of me in the parking lot. He added that if I fought back, they should break my arms.

I didn’t fight back.

But Big Dan had let Chub slide anyway, as a favor to me. It was two weeks before I stopped pissing blood, but I didn’t take any of it personally. He had to save face and had to make sure that back talk didn’t become an everyday occurrence. He knew I was a pro and that I’d understand, and afterward we continued our amiable relationship right up until I left.

But somehow Danny didn’t realize it. He thought I harbored resentment
against his old man. That showed me he was still a piker even though he ran the show now.

“We’ve got a lot to talk about,” he said.

“Do we?”

“Sure, old friends. We’ve got some years to cover.”

He looked at JFK and beckoned the dog by patting his gut. JFK stood and planted his big head on Danny’s thigh. Danny made good-doggie noises, scratching JFK’s ears and jowls. He kissed the dog and the dog licked him back.

“Jesus, I think I can still smell Bernie’s cologne on his breath.”

The death of Bernie Wagner was an open secret, one I didn’t like being reminded of. Bernie had been a two-bit hood turned meth-mouth tweaker who thought it would be a good idea to score a house full of thieves one night. Everyone was asleep except for me and my father. We were out in the garage, putting a new starter in his car. Oddly enough, everything from the car to the parts to the tools had been bought and paid for.

JFK had never so much as growled at anyone. He didn’t even growl when Bernie sneaked around the side of the house and put a .22 to the back of my father’s head. “Your stash, I want all of—”

In an instant, JFK lunged and champed his fangs in Bernie’s throat and with a small wag of his head tore out Bernie’s windpipe. My old man made the effort of trying to wrap the spurting wound with his own shirt and he even performed mouth-to-mouth as Bernie’s life ran down his chest. There was nothing that could be done. It was already over. JFK sat there whining, his muzzle soaked with bloody foam.

My uncles packed Bernie up and drove him to the emergency room and dropped his corpse off at the curb. It was cold but there wasn’t much else that could be done, and no matter how you looked at it Bernie Wagner had called the play.

Turned out Bernie had told a lot of people that he was going to try to boost the Rand house. Even though Gilmore and a few other cops had come around, no one could make anything stick.