“What is it?” a deep voice asked from the garage. Leo slid the gun into the waist of his pants and eased backward. Ionucci was standing outside the door. “What is it?” he repeated.
“I don’t know,” Leo said in a half-whisper. “Maybe just a cat or something. Get back to work.”
The door closed softly, and Leo paced silently back and forth behind the garage for five minutes. Five minutes, but it seemed like an hour to Mark.
Then the dark figure eased around the corner and was gone. Mark watched every move. He slowly counted to one hundred, then crawled along the hedgerow until it stopped at the fence. He paused at the gate and counted to thirty. All was quiet except for the distant, muffled chiseling. Then he darted to the edge of the brush, where Reggie was crouching in terror. She grabbed him as they ducked into the heavier undergrowth.
“They’re in there!” he said, out of breath.
“Who?!”
“I don’t know! They’re digging up the body!”
“What happened?”
He was breathing rapidly. His head bobbed up and down as he swallowed and tried to speak. “I tripped on something, and this one guy, I think he had a gun, almost found me. God I was scared!”
“You’re still scared. And so am I! Let’s get outta here!”
“Listen, Reggie. Wait a minute. Listen! Can you hear it?”
“No! Hear what?”
“That chinking noise. I can’t hear it either. We’re too far away.”
“And I say we get farther away. Let’s go.”
“Just wait a minute, Reggie. Dammit!”
“They’re killers, Mark. They’re Mafia people. Let’s get the hell out of here!”
He breathed through his teeth, and glared at her. “Settle down, Reggie. Just settle down, okay. Look, no one can see us here. You can’t even see these trees from the garage. I tried, okay. Now, settle down.”
She fell to her knees, and they stared at the garage. He placed his finger to his lips. “We’re safe here, okay,” he whispered. “Listen.”
They listened, but the sounds could not be heard.
“Mark, these are Muldanno’s people. They know you’ve escaped. They’re panicking. They’ve got guns and knives and who knows what else. Let’s go. They beat us. It’s all over. They win.”
“We can’t let them take the body, Reggie. Think about it. If they get away with it, it’ll never be found.”
“Good. You’re off the hook, and the Mafia forgets about you. Now let’s go.”
“No, Reggie. We gotta do something.”
“What! You want to pick a fight with Mafia thugs? Come on, Mark. This is crazy.”
“Just wait a minute.”
“Okay. I’ll wait exactly one minute, then I’m gone.”
He turned and smiled at her. “You won’t leave me, Reggie. I know you better than that.”
“Don’t push me, Mark. Now I know how Ricky felt when you were playing around with Clifford and his little water hose.”
“Just be quiet, okay. I’m thinking.”
“That’s what scares me.”
She sat on her butt with her legs crossed in front of her. Leaves and vines rubbed her face and neck. He rocked gently on all fours like a lion ready to kill, and finally said, “I’ve got an idea.”
“Of course you do.”
“Stay here.”
She suddenly grabbed the back of his neck and pulled his face to hers. “Listen, buster, this is not one of your little jungle games where you shoot rubber darts and throw dirt clods. Those are not your little buddies in there playing hide-and-seek, or GI Joe, or whatever the hell you play. This is life and death, Mark. You just made one mistake, and you got lucky. One more, and you’ll be dead. Now, let’s get the hell outta here! Now!”
He was still for a few seconds as she scolded him, then he jerked viciously away. “Stay here, and don’t move,” he said with stiff jaws. He crept from the brush, through the grass to the fence.
Just inside the gate was an abandoned flower bed outlined with sunken timbers and covered with weeds. He crawled to it, and picked out three rocks with all the fussiness of a chef selecting tomatoes at the market. He watched both corners of the garage, then made a silent retreat into the darkness.
Reggie was waiting, and she had not moved a muscle. He knew she could not find her way to the car. He knew she needed him. They huddled again in the brush.
“Mark, this is insane, son,” she pleaded. “Please. These people are not playing games.”
“They’re too busy to worry about us, okay. We’re safe here, Reggie. Look, if they came tearing out of that door right now, they could never find us. We’re safe here, Reggie. Trust me.”
“Trust you! You’ll get yourself killed.”
“Stay here.”
“What! Please, Mark! No more games!”
He ignored her and pointed to a spot near three trees, about thirty feet away. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and he disappeared.
He crawled through the brush until he was behind the Ballantine house. He could barely see the edge of Romey’s garage. Reggie was lost in the dark undergrowth.
The patio was small and dimly lit. There were three white wicker chairs and a charcoal grill. A large plate-glass window overlooked it, and it was this window that attracted his attention. He stood behind a tree, and measured the distance, which he estimated to be the length of two house trailers. The rock would have to be low enough to miss the branches, yet high enough to clear a row of hedges. He took a deep breath, and threw it as hard as he could.
Leo jumped at the sound from next door. He crept in front of the garage and peeked through the hedge. The patio was quiet and still. It sounded like a rock landing on wooden decking and rattling around next to the brick. Maybe it was just a dog. He watched for a long time, and nothing happened. They were safe. Another false alarm.
Mr. Ballantine rolled over and stared at the ceiling. He was in his early sixties, and sleep had been difficult since the removal of the disc a year and a half ago. He had just dozed off, and was awakened by a sound. Or was it a sound? No place was safe in New Orleans anymore, and he’d paid two thousand dollars for an alarm system six months earlier. Crime was everywhere. They were thinking about moving.
He rolled to one side, and had just closed his eyes when the window crashed. He bolted to the door, turned on the bedroom light, and yelled, “Get up, Wanda! Get up!” Wanda was reaching for her robe, and Mr. Ballantine was grabbing the shotgun from the closet. The alarm was wailing. They raced down the hall, yelling at each other and flipping on light switches. The glass had scattered throughout the den, and Mr. Ballantine aimed the shotgun at the window as if to prevent another attack. “Call the police!” he barked at her. “911!”
“I know the number!”
“Hurry up!” He tiptoed in his house shoes around the glass, crouching low with the gun as if a burglar had chosen to enter the house through the window. He fought his way to the kitchen, where he punched numbers on a control panel, and the sirens stopped.
Leo had just resettled into his guard post next to the Spitfire when the crash shattered the stillness. He bit a hole in his tongue as he scrambled to his feet and darted once again to the hedge. A siren screamed briefly, then stopped. A man in a red nightshirt down to his knees was running onto the patio with a shotgun.
Leo crept quickly to the rear door of the garage. Ionucci and the Bull were crouched in terror beside the boat. Leo stepped on a rake, and the handle landed on a bag full of aluminum cans. The three stopped breathing. Voices could be heard next door.
“What the hell is it?” Ionucci demanded through clenched teeth. He and the Bull were shiny with sweat. Their shirts were stuck to their bodies. Their heads were soaking wet.