Bax turned down the volume on the TV news coverage of the gang-war gun battle when Mr. Kline came out of the bedroom and closed the door. Behind it, Owsley lay in a queen-sized bed that he made look like a twin, breathing raggedly after the horse-farm vet pulled out the .38 slug and sewed up a couple of holes in one of his lungs.
Bax had held Owsley’s hand through the surgery. His joints ached from the crushing grip.
“Owsley says you saved his life,” Mr. Kline said.
Bax moved the morning’s newspaper off the couch so Mr. Kline could sit. “He’s heavier than he looks.”
Mr. Kline chuckled, then grew solemn. “He also told me that you made sure your brother won’t be assisting the feds he sold us out to.”
“I’m real sorry about him, Mr. Kline.” Bax let the real emotion of never again seeing Russell show on his face. Leak from his eyes. “After all you done for him—”
Mr. Kline patted Bax’s knee twice. “It’s not lost on me that you did a lot for your brother too.”
Bax wiped his eyes. It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that Mr. Kline knew what he’d gotten away with, what he’d stood up and done Russell’s time for. But he knew better than to acknowledge it, than to give Mr. Kline even more power over him.
“However, I must be absolutely confident we’re covered on that flank. I can blame Russell to the Cossacks, but my assurances to the Bandidos have been met with some... skepticism.”
“Yes, sir. When Russell shot Owsley, I put four in his chest and he went over the railing onto the ground. After I got Owsley out, I put another in his head and put his body in the trunk. I can show you a picture on my phone.” Parker’s people had made Russell look like a chainsaw victim in the movie that had scared the piss out of him.
“Not for me, Bax. But the Bandidos might ask.”
Bax put back the phone he’d started pulling from his pocket. “I drove Owsley here, to your ranch to see the doc, and then drove the car with Russell’s body out to that quarry in Jefferson County. Wrapped the body with canvas and chain, like we do, and sank it separate from the car.”
“Like we do.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m out both the guns and money I expected to get for the guns.”
“Yes, sir, I understand that I’m still in your debt.” Bax waited for Mr. Kline to acknowledge showing his belly and got a small nod. “I did hold out one crate of those guns for you.”
Mr. Kline’s mouth twitched to the right.
“The feds are telling the news that it was between the Bandidos and the Cossacks.”
“I believe we shall find that sinking that driver in the quarry will pay greater dividends than I originally anticipated.”
Bax flinched inside. Maybe Berberian could find out whether the driver’s daughter was off the streets in Memphis. “The feds say the Bandidos stole the guns, and the Cossacks ambushed them while they were breaking down the container for distribution.”
“Certainly that’s not the story your brother fed them.”
“I figure that’s their cover for flipping Russell, because they ain’t know I killed him.” Bax shrugged. “But the closest they can get to you from him is me. And I know how to keep my counsel.”
Venetta didn’t take much care when she tossed his plate of eggs with bacon and jelly with toast on the counter.
Bax folded the paper he’d brought with him from the horse farm. “I missed you yesterday,” he said.
She leaned over the counter, one hand planted deliberately over the front-page photo of the still-smoking, bullet-riddled warehouse. “I ’spect you musta been pretty busy yesterday.”
“I finally got it through my brother’s head that he needs a fresh start somewhere else.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Spent the day packing his things and then put him on a bus to Houston. He got a cousin there who can help him get established.”
“You said you’s his only family.”
Bax chewed on a slice of bacon. “I think I said he’s my only family.”
Venetta looked like she might raise an eyebrow, but she didn’t. “Now that he gone, you gonna tell me the rest of that story?”
“You gonna let me take you to the supper club on Saturday night?” Bax finished his eggs, appreciating that they were still hot.
“I have never met Napoleon, but that ain’t our deal.”
Bax nodded. “My mom — she was Russell’s mom too, you know — when I came along, she was a working girl. After I arrived, she got on a different track. Started waiting tables in a diner.”
“Really.”
“This diner.” Bax smeared strawberry jelly across his sourdough toast. “I bused tables here, for tips, after school, when I was eight, nine years old.”
Venetta perched on a stool behind the counter and took her hand off the newspaper.
“But Russell’s dad, when she took up with him, he wanted her earning more. After Russell come along, he hooked her on dope so he could turn her out.”
“Gonna put his baby momma on the street.”
Bax wiped his mouth. “So I killed him.”
Venetta cleared his plate and ran a towel over the counter. “You did Russell’s bit for what you done that you ain’t got caught for.”
Bax took a twenty from his wallet and laid it on the counter. “I don’t need no change.”
Venetta extended his paper. She didn’t let go of it when he tried to take it.
Bax looked at Venetta’s hand. Its firm grasp on the news.
“Not Saturday night,” Venetta said. “But you can take my daughter and me out for lunch after Sunday services.”
Wallace Stroby
Nightbound
from At Home in the Dark
“Leave him,” Crissa said. “He’s dead.”
Adler was facedown in the alley, not moving, Martinez kneeling beside him. She could see the entry wound in Adler’s back, the blood soaking through his field jacket. From the location of the wound and the speed he was bleeding out, she knew he was gone already, or would be soon.
They had to keep moving. Back at the stash house, the Dominicans would be recovering from the flashbang she’d thrown on her way out the rear door. The three of them had been halfway down the alley when one of the Dominicans had stumbled out of the vacant brownstone, firing blindly. She’d snapped a shot at him with her Glock, chased him back inside. But Adler had caught a round, gone down hard.
Now Martinez looked up at her, panic in his eyes, all that was visible through the ski mask. She shifted the strap of the gear bag, heavy with money, to her left shoulder, grabbed him by the coat sleeve, pulled him up. “Move!”
Forty feet away was the mouth of the alley, the street beyond. To their left, more empty houses. To the right, a high chain-link fence that bordered a vacant lot. The only way out was ahead.
More shots behind them. She spun, saw two men run out into the alley, guns in their hands. She fired twice without aiming. One round ricocheted off blacktop, the other punched through a plywood-covered window. The men ducked back inside.
She fired another shot to keep them there, shoved Martinez forward. The street ahead was still empty. Where was Lopez? The Dominicans would be going out the front door as well, would try to circle around, block the alley. If they beat Lopez there, she and Martinez would be trapped.
Broken glass and crack vials crunched beneath her feet. She could hear Martinez panting behind her.
A screech of brakes, and the Buick pulled up at the end of the alley, Lopez at the wheel, the rear driver’s-side door already open.
She tossed the gear bag into the backseat, threw herself in after it. A shot sounded. Martinez grunted and fell against her.