“No,” I said. “Not Beth. Absolutely not.”
54
WAYMAN SPOTTED US as we ran out the hotel’s front door. I held tight to the suitcase. Veronica’s unbuttoned overcoat swung like a cape behind us. Before Wayman could catch us we were in the Honda, windows closed, engine straining in rhythmic moans to life. He had just reached the car, his huge gun waving in our general direction, when I popped it into gear and shot out.
I took a quick turn left on Walnut and another left up 4th Street. I raced past Spruce Street, past Lombard, ran a red at South Street, and kept going. I hadn’t gone but two blocks past South before the silver BMW was cruising behind us and gaining.
At Washington I spun into a right turn and headed west, BMW tight behind. It rammed me once as I tore along Washington, then once more. I ran another red and the Beemer followed and I wondered where the cops were, wondered where the closest donut shop was, and then with a screech of tire I turned down 7th and slammed on my brakes smack in front of the Sons of Garibaldi Men’s Club.
The silver BMW came to a turning stop right behind us and Wayman jumped out as if his seat was afire. I barely had the time to open my door before he stuck his arm in, jabbing the point of a huge switchblade knife into my throat. The drummer was guarding the passenger door, grinning into the window.
“Run from me again, Vi’tor Carl, you just try and run from me again without I say so and I’ll slice another smile in your motherfucking neck.”
I tried to say something but with the knife sticking into my larynx and me shaking like a stripper nothing came out.
“But don’t you worry yourself, it’s all cool now. Ronnie, sweetie, let’s you and I take a little drive, what you say?”
Beth turned from the drummer to face Wayman and Wayman’s jaw dropped and when he spoke his voice was deep and precise with shock.
“Who are you, lady?”
“She’s my partner,” I managed to get out between shakes.
“Get the fuck out of here,” he said, and then he added, “Shit,” drawing out the word until the T just disappeared. “Where is she, Vi’tor Carl? Tell me now or your neck be history. Tell me, Vi’tor Carl.” He twisted the knifepoint into my neck, almost lifting me from the car seat. I could feel a line of blood run down my throat. “Tell me quick, tell me now, tell me, tell me, tell me. Tell me, Vi’tor Carl, my knife here it is thirsty once again and it don’t got much more patience.”
I was about to tell him something when a thick, hairy hand landed on Wayman’s shoulder. Beth gasped, or maybe it was me, I couldn’t tell. There was something obscene about that hand landing there, like a bony spider. The pressure of the knifepoint slipped from my neck and when Wayman turned to see what it was the hand slid over and grabbed hold of his neck. Before Wayman could say a word of complaint, the hand’s owner slammed a brick into Wayman’s head. Blood burst from Wayman’s forehead. The blow sent him spinning away from the car, his knife sliding with a sweet scrabble across the asphalt. The man with the brick was Dominic and for the first time ever I saw him smile.
It was not a pleasant sight.
I swiveled to check the drummer on the other side of the car, but he was no longer leering inside the window. Instead he was being lifted in a great bear hug, his arms struggling futilely against the pin of some giant whose waist only I could see through the passenger window.
“Step on out, Victor,” I heard Dominic say and when I got out I saw him sitting on top of Wayman, his knees holding Wayman’s arms to the ground, his bony hands tight around Wayman’s throat.
“Hey, Dominic, where do you want this package?” asked the man bear-hugging the drummer. From behind the thug’s shoulders I could see it was Giovanni, his hard face illuminated now with a wide grin.
“Throw it in the garbage,” said Dominic, hands still around Wayman’s throat.
Jasper leaned over Wayman, still held down by Dominic, and started searching him. He reached into Wayman’s sweatpants and pulled out the huge revolver I had seen Wayman brandishing before I had kicked the Honda into gear and fled from the hotel. “Whoa, what do you know?” said Jasper. “What a nasty piece of work this little shit is.”
Jasper checked the gun, unloaded it shell by shell, and then took hold of the barrel. He raised the gun about a foot and a half and dropped the butt end onto Wayman’s shoulder blade. Wayman shouted out something wild and started struggling, cursing even as Dominic’s hands tightened around his neck. Jasper lifted the gun again, just a foot and a half, and let it drop. He hammered at the shoulder blade again, and again, raising the gun a foot and a half and dropping it, over and over and over.
There was a loud crack, Wayman let out a howl and his right arm went dead.
Calmly, methodically, raising the gun the same height of a foot and a half and then dropping it over and over, Jasper went to work on the other shoulder. There was a practiced air about his movements, the fulfillment of a familiar and somewhat pleasant chore.
“Jesus, this feels good,” said Dominic, still atop the struggling Wayman. He couldn’t help but smile again, a smile filled with satisfied blood lust.
I rubbed at my neck, my hand came away slick with my own blood.
“It’s not too often us old goombahs get a chance to work out,” said Dominic.
“What we need,” said Jasper as he kept hammering at the collarbone, “is a gym, you know, a few weights, a ring to spar in, a punching bag.”
“You got the punching bag right there,” said Dominic.
“I need something tougher, something with heft,” said Jasper over Wayman’s shouts. “Something to give me a real workout.”
Across the street Giovanni was slamming the drummer’s head into the side of a construction dumpster once, twice, thrice for good effect. Then he lifted him like a sack of lime and threw him in.
“What is going on, Victor?” said Beth, who was also out of the car. “What just happened?”
“We’ve been saved by the cavalry,” I said. “Beth, I want you to meet some friends. The young kid is Giovanni, the fellow banging on our friend Wayman is Jasper.”
Just then there was another sickening crack and Wayman let out a desperate wild howl.
Wayman had killed Chuckie, had stuck the point of his knife far enough into my neck to draw blood, had promised to kill me, but even still I couldn’t help but wince.
“And this here is Dominic,” I continued. “Don’t play poker with Dominic, Beth, he’s a shark.”
“A weekend player,” said Dominic as he rose from the helpless Wayman, slapping his hands clean. “Here you go, pal,” he said, reaching into his pocket and handing me a handkerchief.
I wiped my hand and neck clean. So I had become Dominic’s pal. We had fought the common enemy and come through as blood brothers.
“He’s bawling like a goddamn baby,” said Jasper. “What’s this scumbag’s name, Sport?”
“Wayman,” I said. And then on the spur of the moment, like some all-powerful don, I added, “Don’t kill him.”
“What are you, an idiot? I wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of hurting him if I was going to kill him,” said Jasper over Wayman’s moans. “Now – Wayman,” he shouted, loud and slow as if he were talking to a Frenchman. “I – don’t – want – you – should – bother – Victor – no – more – do – you – understand?”
Wayman let out a little shriek of assent.
“I – don’t – want – I – should – hear – that – he – is – troubled – or – that – he – is – dead – because – then – I – will – be – angry – do – you – understand?”
Another shriek of assent.
“That’s – good – Wayman,” said Jasper, patting his cheek. “You’re – in – no – condition – to – drive. – We’re – going – to – let – your – friend – drive – you – home.”