White Tiger on Snow Mountain (30 page)

The dealer’s place was a few towns away, in a working-class neighborhood that had slowly decompressed into ghetto while the surrounding suburbs bloated into affluence. This was where the maids and gardeners of the wealthy lived, where their kids went to buy their drugs. It had been a decade or more since he’d even taken this exit or passed through these streets, Pine, Ash, Maple, and barely a green leaf in sight. He had to let Doreen direct him. It all looked the same to Eddie. The house itself was nondescript—weathered siding, dying yard—but the tightly sealed blank windows and the high-end cars in the drive were tip-offs, a sleek Lexus and a fat Denali, both with shining rims. Eddie gave Doreen’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze before he pressed the buzzer, which didn’t work. So he knocked.

A classic dirtbag opened the door, long greasy hair, vaginal whiskers around cracked wet lips, crazy eyes, tattoos up his arms like the funny papers, wifebeater and baggy jeans. Doreen said, Hi, Dirk, this is Eddie. We brought the money, let us in. And Dirk scowled but stepped aside, ostentatiously stroking the butt of the .45 automatic he had stuck down his pants. Eddie kept his hands loose in plain sight. A guido with stiff hair and tan muscles in a pink polo shirt and expensive jeans, and another dirtbag, covered in ink and piercings like a sideshow freak, were hanging out on the crappy modular couch inside. There was a coffee table heaped with bottles, ashtrays, pizza cartons. A big-screen TV ran ads on the wall. Doreen made the introductions. Eddie, this is Richie and Renard. Renard the freak nodded amiably—Sup?—but the guido leapt to his feet. What the fuck? Who’s this? I said come alone. Obviously
tweaked and waving a Glock. Doreen trembled and moaned. No, Richie, don’t. Eddie stepped in front of her, hands out, palms up. Hey, hey, take it easy. For Christ’s sake put the gun down.

Who the fuck are you? Richie asked, still menacing but a little less sure, gun hand drooping.

Eddie said, I’m the only person she knows with five grand.

Richie considered this, then tucked the gun in the back of his jeans and quickly checked his hair in the mirror across the room. OK. Whatever. Just hand over the cash.

It’s in the car, Eddie told him. I want to see the girl first. Go get her, we all walk out, put them in the car and get the dough. Then we drive away. Nice and simple.

What the fuck are you trying to pull? Richie’s back was up again. The dirtbags stirred and growled.

Hey, Eddie said. For all I know Doreen was setting me up. This chick is always hitting me up for money. Doreen scowled, fear shifting to annoyance. Hey, that’s not fair, she said, though her hands remained in the air, as if she’d forgotten them there. Look, Eddie went on. You can see I’m not packing. He turned around, like he was modeling his button-up shirt and slacks. You got three armed guys. I got bupkis. What am I gonna do? Pull a Starsky and Hutch?

Who? Richie looked confused now.

It’s a movie, Doreen explained. Starsky and Hutch.

Then who’s Bupkis? Dirk asked suspiciously.

OK, OK, whatever, Richie said. Retard, go get the bitch. Dirk, keep an eye on them. Renard rose slowly, with the unsteady bearing of someone who’s been on the couch a long time. Dirk massaged his gun handle. Richie, pleased now that
he’d reassumed command, found a box of Marlboros on the table and lit up. Can I get one of those? Eddie asked him. Sure, he said, why not? I’ll toss it in no charge. Everyone laughed and the tension eased. Doreen took one too. Dirk fished a Newport from his shirt pocket. They all smoked.

Then Renard yelled from the bedroom. Holy shit, what the fuck! Richie dashed into the next room with Dirk sprinting behind him. Eddie told Doreen to wait here, but she followed right on his heels. Judith had been bound to the bed hand and foot with duct tape. Her eyes bulged and foam drooled down her chin where the tape had been pulled from her mouth. Eddie understood immediately what had happened but said nothing, a hand on Doreen’s arm. Renard was shaking her shoulder. Wake up, bitch! She passed out or something. Richie leaned over her, setting his gun on the night table. Judith! He yelled into her empty face as if down a well. Wake up! Time to go! With a cry, Doreen shook Eddie off and rushed the bed, pushing Richie aside. She lifted Judith, hugging her close and rocking her like a baby as more liquid leaked from her slack mouth. Doreen wailed. Dirk wailed too. Oh fuck, she pulled a fucking Hendrix.

Enraged, Doreen turned on Richie. You killed her, you fucking killed her! I didn’t, he yelled. It was Retard. He shouted at Renard, You’re the one who fucking taped her. But you told me to, he whined, pulling his hair. Doreen began punching and slapping Richie, and he just cowered, beside himself with panic. She cried and moaned. Call an ambulance. Eddie, please.

Those words seemed to electrify Richie, who was starting to realize how much trouble he was in. Come on, let’s get out of here, Eddie whispered, reaching for Doreen, but it was too late.
Richie screamed, Nobody’s going nowhere, hold them, Dirk, and as Dirk stepped forward, reaching for his gun, Eddie saw where this was going. Three dead bodies to dispose of, however awkward, was better than two live witnesses. So instead of backing away from Dirk he moved toward him, closing the gap between their bodies fast and putting Dirk between himself and the others. With his left hand he grabbed Dirk’s right wrist and twisted hard, grinding the small bones painfully. Dirk winced and hesitated, just a moment but enough. With his right hand Eddie pulled the .45 from Dirk’s waistband and, pushing the barrel into his abdomen, shot him twice through the gut.

The force of the blast propelled Dirk back and Eddie shoved him into Renard, who was fumbling for his own gun. Richie and Doreen were both still turning to look, stunned by the deafening bangs, barely grasping what had just happened. Dirk fell dying against Renard, and Eddie leaned over and carefully shot Renard through the thigh. He whimpered as the hole in his jeans filled with blood and crumpled to the floor with Dirk’s corpse slumped over him. Eddie wheeled left, bouncing Doreen roughly onto the bed, and made for Richie, who was just that moment remembering that his gun was on the night table, a foot or two away. Eddie pressed the hot barrel of the pistol to Richie’s forehead. Don’t move, he said. Nobody fucking move.

Richie froze with his mouth open, like a fish, blinking spasmodically as his eyes tried to focus on the gun between them. Eddie spoke calmly. Tell Renard not to fucking move or I will blow your brains out. Richie said, Don’t fucking move, Retard. I can’t fucking move, Renard whined from the floor. He shot me.

Doreen, Eddie said. She was in shock and looked up vaguely at her name. Doreen, he yelled. She looked at him, seeming to wake up. I need you to go get Renard’s gun, honey. Can you do that? She nodded and went, grimacing when she saw the wound and briefly shutting her eyes when she had to roll Dirk’s torn corpse to the side, but she held up the 9. Good, Eddie said, now get Richie’s gun from the table there. Careful, walk around us slow. She did that too, and showed him the guns in each hand. Don’t kill us please, Renard said from the floor, then added, I need a doctor.

Look, Richie said, voice low, quavering, afraid to even work his mouth with the gun pressed to his skull. We can work this out. My uncle can take care of everything. He’s a boss. He can help us.

What’s his name this uncle? Eddie asked.

Richie. I mean his name is Richie like mine. I mean I’m named after him.

Calm down, Eddie said. What is his last name?

Richie, Richard Caprissi.

Richie Caprice? Eddie asked, unable to contain a small grin. Copcar Richie is your uncle?

Yeah, that’s him, you know him?

Since before you were born. He must be very proud. You’re Vanessa’s kid?

No, my mom is Uncle Richie’s cousin. I just call him that. I’m from Lodi.

OK, let’s call him, Eddie said, and see if he can help. I’m going to put the gun down and you’re going to help Renard into the living room. OK? Richie nodded. OK, let’s go, Eddie said, nice and easy. Doreen, you bring the guns.

So they moved like Eddie said, with Richie helping Renard hop to the couch. Eddie had Doreen put the guns in a plastic takeout bag she found lying on the floor, then bind Renard’s wound with a towel. Eddie told him he would be OK. The bullet had passed cleanly through the meat of the thigh without hitting any arteries. If you were going to die you’d have done it by now, Eddie said, and let him snort a line of dope off the coffee table, which seemed to quiet him down. He sniffled, nibbling at some pills that were mixed in with potato chip crumbs and ashes. Meanwhile Richie called the uncle and bashfully explained the problem. You could hear the old man cursing through the phone. Richie winced. Let me talk to him, Eddie said, and took the phone. Hey, Richie, he said, guess who? It’s Eddie. Eddie-Eddie, from the old days. Yeah, Deadly Eddly. He laughed. Fuck, I haven’t heard that one in ages. He listened awhile, chuckling occasionally, and Richie and Renard whispered on the couch. Doreen observed all this with a sharpened glance. She seemed to be slowly returning to herself, as if her startled spirit were slipping gingerly back into her body. All right, Eddie was saying into the phone. No problem. He handed it back to Richie. Here. Yes, sir, Richie said into the phone, sitting up straighter on the couch. I understand. He hung up.

First of all, Richie said to Eddie. He started to stand, but sat back as he remembered the gun. First of all, sir, let me apologize. I sincerely meant no disrespect. I didn’t realize who you were.

Eddie shrugged. Now you know. He switched gun hands to shake.

Yes, sir. My uncle talked about you all the time.

And let me add, sir, that it is a real honor to meet you, Renard piped in, pain dissolving in the flow of opiates. His pupils were black pinpricks. Sorry about before.

That’s OK, kid. Eddie smiled. No hard feelings.

Damn, Renard whooped. Crazy Eddie! Tell us about the time you capped those three motherfuckers inside that taxi.

No, Richie said. The best is the one about the fork, remember, Retard?

Oh shit, right, Renard said. That is fucking awesome.

My uncle told me about that when I bought myself an Uzi, Richie explained. Sweet little piece, right, but Uncle Richie says, Remember, it’s not the biggest gun or the biggest guy who wins. It’s the ruthlest motherfucker in the room. Then he says, My old buddy Deadly, he’s only five-five—no offence. Eddie shrugged. Deadly is in a diner. Sitting in a booth unarmed eating breakfast. About to sip your coffee when that big mook Jimmy Sausage pulls a fucking Magnum.

I love this part, Renard blurted. Go on. Sorry to interrupt.

So what do you do? Richie asked. Cool as fuck, you splash hot coffee right in his eyes, then grab your fork and stab him in the fucking jugular. Bam, he bled right the fuck out in the booth.

Fuck yeah, Renard yelled, clearly high now.

And then, Richie went on, talking to Renard as if Eddie wasn’t there. Then he pays the bill, leaves an extra big tip for the waitress, and says, Sorry for the mess. The two boys laughed appreciatively.

So cool, Renard said.

That’s when my uncle said, I’d bet on Eddie with a fork over an Uzi or Magnum any day. You know why?

Eddie shook his head, smiling ruefully. Richie shouted, and Renard joined in happily, Because he’s not afraid to fucking stick it in!

They laughed and high-fived, and Eddie snapped his fingers to get their attention. OK, party’s over. Let’s get moving. You boys can finish sucking my dick in the car. So they took off, Eddie driving, and headed over to this bakery in Ridgefield to see the uncle. Doreen still looked like she was sleepwalking. Had it really been only the afternoon before, still less than twenty-four hours ago, that she and Judith were running away to Florida together? Had it only been a day before that she was in class, a somewhat normal girl leading her somewhat normal life? If everything that had happened in that house had completely turned her mind inside out, the bakery was the final twist. Up front it was an old-style Italian bakery with a ticket machine for taking numbers, a canister of string hanging from the ceiling, and a heavyset mustachioed lady in a hairnet behind a glass case full of wetly gleaming cannolis and éclairs and pignolis and anisette toast with stacks of yellow and brown semolina bread on the shelf behind. In the back was a room with tables and chairs and a waiter in a uniform, but there were no regular customers, no kids or families eating cake, just men sitting around, smoking, drinking espressos, playing cards, who all acted like Eddie was their long-lost hero as soon as they walked in. A skinny older guy in a tracksuit and blue-tinted shades, a fat guy so huge Doreen thought the little metal café chair was going to get wedged in his ass crack when he got up, a couple of younger muscled-up dudes in tight Armani tops, expensive jeans, tattoos, and hair like carved lacquered wood—they all hopped right up to hug Eddie and slap him on the back, as
if him shooting two dudes and spanking the nephew was the greatest thing ever. They called him Crazy Eddie, Deadly, Dudley Do-Wrong. They all rushed to light his cigarette and then parted as an even older guy, slope-shouldered with sky-blue golf pants across his round belly and a polo shirt and glasses on a chain, gray hair sprouting like crabgrass from ears and nose and eyebrows but gone from his smooth, shining brown skull, shuffled forward and gave Eddie a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. Eddie introduced her.

Richie, this is Doreen. How do you do, sweetheart, it’s a pleasure, the old guy said, squeezing her hand in both of his. I’m so sorry for all the trouble. Have a seat, please. Richie, he told his nephew, take your friend and go with Dominic to the doctor. At this the fat guy got out his keys, and Little Richie and Renard hustled off with more handshakes and apologies for Eddie. Then Richie, meaning old Uncle Richie, ordered cappuccino and cheesecake and some assorted cookies for Doreen before he took Eddie by the hand and led him back into the kitchen. There was a guy in there in an apron mopping up, but he left when he saw them lean on the counter. Richie sighed dramatically and shook his head. What a fucking mess. Family, huh? A real pain in the ass that kid.