The Moon Around Sarah (13 page)

‘Like tonight? Now?’

‘Now.’

Randy had thought about it for a minute.

‘Maybe,’ he had answered, sipping his whisky, although he knew damned well where to get almost anything in that
town at the drop of a hat. One of his rules was that you never let the sucker know how easy something was to come by. Let them think he was earning his money.

‘I’d pay well,’ Eric had added, and then they had started talking about money and Eric, through carelessness or an urge to brag, told Randy about the property sale and how much money he had made that day.

Randy had kept nodding gravely. Inside his head he heard a cash register’s ring, an ATM machine wheezing out twenty-dollar bills, and he could hardly suppress a wide grin.

‘I’ll see what I can do for you,’ Cohan told him in a comrade’s tone. ‘I know a guy who’s got an old H&R he might let go for fifty bucks.’

‘H&R? What’s that?’

‘Harrington and Richardson, man! It’s an old revolver, but I seen it – it’s in pretty good shape. Big old eight-inch barrel. Is that all right?’

‘Fine,’ Eric answered dully. He was gently rolling a cold beer bottle over his bruised forehead. Randy Cohan wanted to make sure the mark didn’t drift away on him. He kept on chattering about the pistol.

‘Yeah, it’s a .38. Todd’s probably got some ammunition for it.’

Eric’s gaze wandered briefly. That blond guy in the Reds’ baseball cap, sitting at a table with a big dark-bearded guy … wasn’t that Don March?

‘Hey!’ Randy nudged him out of his reverie. ‘Are you listening to me, Eric?’

‘Yeah. An H&R .38. Todd’s got it.’

‘That’s right. Do you still want to go look at it?’

‘Sure,’ Eric had answered, and that was when he had tried to get up, and the barroom floor tilted, slid away underfoot, and his stool fell over.

Now they were continuing on, wading through the fog, weaving down dark streets Eric had never walked before. They were nearer the ocean now; Eric could hear the whip and hiss of the breakers meeting sand.

They made their way more quickly now. Randy no longer had to support Eric. Once Eric stumbled and tripped over a crack in the sidewalk, careening into a wall before he fell, cracking his head roughly against the pavement. Randy just laughed and pulled him to his feet.

‘You’ll be all right. We’re just about there.’

He pointed toward a light that appeared no brighter than a pinpoint beaming through the snarled fog. ‘That’s Todd’s place, man. Make it that far and we’ll fix you up.’

Eric nodded and struggled onward, feeling like a zombie in the fog. He wondered if they weren’t passing other
fog-creatures
, too gruesome to be imagined, all plodding … somewhere.

At the knock on his front door, Todd Kostokas parted his bedroom curtains just enough to peer out at the men standing under his porchlight; you always had to watch for the cops. Todd even kept a packed carry-on bag next to his back door, ready to bail at any moment. He let the curtains fall into place; it wasn’t the cops.

It was that shithead Randy Cohan and some guy Todd
Kostokas had never seen before. They both looked smashed. Todd mumbled a curse and started toward the door on stockinged feet.

Randy was a fringe player, useful now and then for small jobs that didn’t require too much thinking; but basically he was a shithead punk. Plain dumb. And Todd didn’t like him bringing people around that he didn’t know. Kostokas walked across his worn brown carpet to the triple-locked front door.

Of Greek extraction, Todd was short, no more than 5’8”, but very wide across the shoulders and deep through his hairy chest. He wore a gold St Christopher’s medal around his neck. His hair was black and very woolly, but thinning badly at the back of his skull. He had a prominent, arched nose with a bend in it where it had been broken by a Mexican with a 2x4. He was perpetually unhappy, and Randy Cohan’s arrival did nothing to lift the grimace from his thick lips.

He unlocked the door and before letting Randy cross the threshold, he growled, ‘What?’

The Irish kid grinned.

‘Business, man. Let us in.’

After a moment, Todd stepped back and Cohan entered the rank-smelling apartment. Eric Tucker stumbled, but made it through the door, sitting immediately on a faded green couch, frosted with cat hair.

Todd’s mouth tightened. He didn’t like people doing
anything
in his place without asking first. That guy Liebowitz – and it seemed that Randy Cohan had brought
him over, too – had come in, sat down and pulled out a rig, knowing damn well that the cops were probably around somewhere. Todd had broken the junkie’s needle off in the wall and then busted the guy’s head for him before throwing him out.

‘This best be important, man,’ Todd warned Randy Cohan.

Randy glanced toward the hallway.

‘You got a chick in here?’

Kostokas didn’t answer. Jesus, Randy was a shithead. Like having a broad there would be the only reason he didn’t want to see the redheaded idiot.

‘What’s up,’ Randy said smiling brightly as if he had some terrific secret he was bursting to share, ‘is that my friend here needs a piece, Todd. I thought of that old H&R you were showing me. Still got it?’

Shithead
. You don’t come around talking about weapons either, not with some guy Todd had never even seen before tagging along.

‘Come here, man,’ Todd said, guiding Randy toward his bedroom, fingers and thumb clamped firmly onto his arm above the elbow.

Cohan went along willingly, though his arm complained. His eyes continued to glitter. Eric remained seated on the sofa, his head hanging.

When he had closed the bedroom door behind them, Todd crossed his heavy arms and demanded, ‘OK. What’s up, Randy?’

Cohan seated himself on Todd’s unmade bed.

‘I just wanted to cut you in on something, Todd. We always do each other right, don’t we?’

‘That means you need me for something,’ Kostokas said cynically. ‘Who’s the barf-bag you brought with you? Jesus, I can smell him from here!’

‘He’s just a barf-bag, like you say. His name’s Eric. He said he wanted to buy a gun….’ Randy paused dramatically. He leaned forward, his bright eyes searching Todd’s. ‘The man’s got eighteen grand on him, Todd, and he’s blasted out of his mind.’

Kostokas took a minute to think about that. Outside his window, a furniture truck rumbled past.

‘How do you know he’s got it?’

‘He told me, man! See, he sold some real estate today. Him and his family.’

‘He said he’s carrying eighteen-thousand?’

‘Yeah,’ Randy said eagerly. ‘See, he wanted to buy a gun – I dunno why – so I brought him over here. I figured….’

‘I know what you figured,’ Todd said roughly. ‘But we can’t do it here.’

‘I didn’t say here,’ Randy said slyly. ‘Look, sell him the gun. We’ll give him a few more drinks … got anything?’

‘Most of a gallon of dago red, that’s all.’

‘That’ll work, man! We sell him the gun and let him go walking down the street. It won’t take much to take care of him, will it? It’s dark out and foggy as hell. The dude’s already drunk out of his mind.’ Randy’s eyes remained excited; he had his half of the money already spent mentally.

‘You’re sure about this?’ Kostokas asked carefully, lowering his voice.

‘That’s what the dude told me, man. Eighteen-thousand and some change. What about it, Todd?’

‘Why didn’t you just do it yourself?’

‘Oh, man, I had to get him off the main drag, right? Besides, why not split a good thing with a friend?’

Meaning, Todd Kostokas knew, that Randy didn’t have the guts to do it alone.

‘He’s not faking that drunk?’ Todd asked with suspicion. ‘If this is some kind of set up.…’

Kostokas had gotten cop-shy to the point of paranoia lately. He had already been picked up three times that month for questioning. They had nothing on him, but the cops knew he was a player, and they would keep trying. Meanwhile, Todd was seeing narks everywhere.

‘Hey, he’s drunk on his ass. I was out drinking with him. The man can hardly walk. Have a talk with him,’ Randy encouraged, ‘show him the H&R. Let me pour him some wine.’

Todd ran his hand through his hair.

‘OK,’ he said finally. It was too much money to pass up. The risk was worth it.

‘Is the pistol clean?’ Randy asked. ‘Just in case something happens, I mean….’

‘It’s clean.’ Todd went to his closet and removed the gun from its hiding place behind a loose board. It was a big, clumsy-looking revolver, the bluing rubbed thin. There was a large chip in the checked walnut grips.

‘Think this’ll satisfy him?’

‘Sure. He don’t know shit about guns. I told him you wanted fifty bucks for it.’

‘OK, sure,’ Todd said. There was no sense in trying to jack up the price on the revolver. It would be coming back anyway. ‘Just let me talk to him – like I was holding out, you know. I want to look at him a little closer, to make sure. You just keep his wine glass filled.’

Eric Tucker lifted his head at the sound of the opening door. His head seemed to weigh as much as an anvil; the door seemed to lead into the ceiling where little scarlet and yellow birds flocked and peeped.

The two men approached him through a tangled haze, as if the fog had managed to seep into the house. Where in the hell was he? He should be able to remember that, shouldn’t he? Plus, who in the hell were these two guys! Squinting one eye, leaning forward, he was able to recognize one of them; the redhead from the bar. But who was the short guy who resembled a fuzzy bear? He gave up trying to figure it out. It was too much trouble just then.

Eric held his head gently in his hands and rested his elbows on his thighs, noticing that one knee of his pants was torn out and the flesh beneath was ripped open. Gradually a hole bored its way through the fog of his mind, enough for him to remember back to the beginning of the long trek.

A gun
. They had come looking for a gun. As Eric thought about it, it seemed more important than anything in the world that he find a gun. As he was briefly passed out he
had lurched into a psychotic nightmare. He had been a little kid and Raymond, wearing a wolf’s-head mask, was beating him with a bedpost. Each time the post struck him, a bone broke, and then Eric would cry out in pain, and Raymond, screaming, ‘I told you, men don’t cry!’ would hit him again.

The redheaded guy was crouched down in front of Eric now. Looking up into his bloodless face, Randy asked, ‘Are you all right, Ace?’

Eric mumbled something unintelligible and he heard the redhead say, ‘He’s OK. Hey, man!’ Randy shook his shoulder. ‘Remember what’s happening? This guy here is Todd. He’s got the gun to show you. You still want the gun, don’t you?’

‘
Yes
!’ Eric shouted the word. His voice broke. He lifted his eyes, alert to the men suddenly. They were still a little fuzzy around the edges, standing at the end of a twisting tunnel.

‘OK, man,’ Randy rose, patting Eric’s shoulder again. ‘You talk to Todd now, OK? I’m going to get you some
medicine
. Clear those spider webs out of your head.’

Randy clomped off to the kitchen and was replaced by the crouching bear. He had a pistol in his hands. He held it loosely. His smile was ugly and false, but that didn’t matter; only the gun mattered.

‘So,’ Todd Kostokas said, turning the pistol one way and then the other, showing it to Eric. ‘What do you think, man? It’s a clean piece. It’s old, but it’ll do whatever you got in mind. A hundred bucks, right?’

Eric tried to remember. That didn’t seem right. He wasn’t even sure he had that much money on him. Randy had
returned. He said, ‘Hey, Todd, this guy’s a friend of mine. I told him fifty, what about it?’

‘I don’t know, man.’ Todd shook his head.

Randy held out a very large glass, very full of wine.

‘Drink this, Eric. You got to replace those calories you lost in the alley.’

Wine? On this stomach? But with the throbbing in his skull growing more merciless, Eric knew he would have to drink something or brace himself for a massive, debilitating hangover. He wanted to be feeling high, alert when he killed Raymond, not all muzzy and hurting. He leaned back on the sofa, accepted the tumbler full of wine and drank half of it.

Randy looked at Todd enquiringly, his smirk repressed.

The Greek nodded, ‘Well, OK. For a friend of yours, fifty bucks. Let’s see the money.’

‘Give Todd fifty, man,’ Randy prompted, and after another drink of wine, Eric placed the glass aside and dug into his trousers’ pocket, pulling out a wadded tangle of bills.

‘You count it,’ Eric said, waving a hand. He finished the wine in his glass. The first drink had tilted his stomach, threatening to turn it over again; now the wine tasted fine. His guts were warming pleasantly; his vision was clearing. His heartbeat was slowing to a normal rate.

‘Want a little more of that grape juice?’ Randy Cohan asked, and Eric nodded, handing him the glass.

Randy returned a few folded bills. Eric shoved them away in his pocket without counting. A few singles fell onto the carpet unnoticed.

Todd Kostokas was saying something about the gun. He had opened the cylinder gate.

‘I couldn’t find no more cartridges. Hey, but it’s a .38, man. In the morning you can buy a box almost anywhere. You can’t get none tonight.’ He snapped the gate shut again, spinning the cylinder. He grinned, ‘It’s got four cartridges loaded. If that’s enough for whatever you got in mind.’

‘One is enough for what I have in mind,’ Eric answered. He took a fresh glass of wine from Randy and drained half of it without taking the glass from his lips. He was
beginning
to feel just fine, high again.

Todd and Randy exchanged a look.
One
bullet was enough? What was the guy going to do, blow his brains out? Best to get the dude on his way before he did something completely wacky, anyway.

‘Finish up your drink, OK?’ Randy urged. ‘Me and Todd got some things we got to be doing.’

‘Sure,’ Eric said. It sounded like he had a mouthful of walnuts, but his thoughts were clear. He was going to shoot Raymond in the face. Happy patricide! Where was the guilt he was supposed to feel? He had had guilt all of his life over nothing in particular. And Fear! God, had he had fear of Raymond Tucker! He felt neither of these crippling emotions right now; he had his gun. In the morning he would be rich and Raymond would be gone. Do it now! He had no fear. He hoped Raymond would be grinning that savage grin of his when he pulled the trigger. He wanted to watch it explode off his face.