“Jack, when you met her she was surfing the roof of a Honda hatchback at one A.M., with the lights off, down the worst road on Mount Greylock. She hangs out with scumbags and her name is a consonant. In two of her four photos the woman is airborne and she looks different in all of them. She has a tattoo on her head. That man literally gets away with murder several times a year and she’s talking to him like he’s her dippy uncle. I’m not sure she knows anything about anything.” Now Aberfoyle was wobbling a finger at Zed’s bemused face, laying down some kind of law. “If you don’t say something to make him happy we are going to die.”
Jack was Frisbeeing rocks from his left palm into the void, watching them arc and disappear into the foggy woodland that reached toward Riverport’s southern border. “Americana.” The leather of his jacket snapped as a flat stone spun and descended. “Family businesses. One school. Everyone knows everyone. Riverport, oh Riverport, such a pretty little town.”
Paul recognized the refrain from their school anthem.
Jack tossed the remaining rocks over the side. “I hate pretty little towns. I hate this pretty little town.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, toward one of the most dangerous men in the state. “Once this is dealt with I’m leaving. I mean it this time. This is the last mess of Will’s I’m cleaning up.”
“You don’t mean that. You mean it now, but you won’t mean it tomorrow. You’d have grown up in foster care if it wasn’t for your brother.”
“‘Care.’ Wouldn’t that have been something?”
“Come on…”
“Do you remember how many jobs I worked through high school? Because I sure don’t. What did I trade to spend ten years working so he didn’t have to?”
“Yeah, but Will made your lunches-even if we did have to wash out those Ziplocs every Friday night. He drove us around when we were kids, right? Summers on the lake? I mean, he did his best. You guys are a team.”
“He told me our folks were broke. Turns out that wasn’t the case.”
“But-”
“Hundreds of thousands of dollars.”
The fight went out of Paul. “Ah shit.”
“He blew it-all of it-in the first couple of years. Then came the loans and now, Paul, my friend, we are here.”
The conversation behind them shifted tone. Gone was the music of pleased-to-meet-you. Smiles faded from Zed and Aberfoyle’s eyes.
Paul’s voice cracked. “Jack. Plan B.” He hated himself for the sound of it. “If there is one, now’s the time.”
Jack took a half-interested look at the scene behind him: Zed and Aberfoyle, standing face-to-face. Aberfoyle’s three wide-bodies propping up his town car, not concerned enough to even draw weapons. One of them looked at his watch. The other one signaled to a third, who sat in the car, listening to the radio. He got out, handed a heavy paper bag to the second, who took out a pre-loved Beretta with a tape-wrapped grip and checked the magazine.
Jack faced the front. To Paul that was an admission: This was now real. This was happening.
Paul swallowed. “They say… they say he shoots people with silver bullets,” he whispered. “When the coroner finds one the case goes away. The cop who returns it to Aberfoyle gets five grand. They say he keeps the used ones in a jelly jar on his desk.”
Jack kept his voice low. “You told me the same story when we were nine. I’ve still never heard anything that-”
Aberfoyle took a snub-nosed.38 out of his pocket, snapped the cylinder open, checked the contents. The ass-ends of six slugs flashed like mirrors.
“I stand corrected.”
The cylinder clicked shut. The wide-bodies sauntered over to Aberfoyle and Zed. Gravity seemed to be charging them double, but they didn’t care.
Zed nodded a hello. “Mario. Luigi. Princess Peach.”
No reaction from the first two. Princess smiled like a prehistoric fish and held eye contact with Zed way too long.
Paul went white. “Fuck me.”
Jack backhanded Paul in the chest. “Take it easy. Wolves dig panic.”
Paul nodded, a little too quickly.
“All right. Worst comes to worst, over the side, aim for the slope. Legs first.”
“What?”
Aberfoyle’s voice suddenly went up an octave. “The universe responds to clear intentions, girl. Mine is to get what’s mine. What’s yours?”
“Hey, Trouble, c’mere.” Zed beckoned Jack over, introduced him in that New Jersey accent. “This is my friend. His name is Jack Joyce. He is the brother of William Joyce, the scientist. The man who owes you all that money.”
Aberfoyle turned to Jack. “For a smart man your brother is very stupid.”
“Zed?”
Aberfoyle tapped Jack sharply on the side of the head with the silver-loaded.38. “Hey. Over here. You and your brother. You close?”
“He’s an idiot and I want this over with. What does he owe you?”
Aberfoyle had a laugh like bad plumbing. “More than he’s got. More than you got. You got a spread. Nice piece a land. Nice house. I’m takin’ that. But so we’re clear: that don’t even cover the vig.”
“The interest,” Zed clarified.
“I watch The Sopranos,” Jack said. “So what do we do? No, wait, fuck that. You’re not getting the house.”
“The fuck you say?”
“Give me a figure, I’ll work something out.”
“The fuck you say?” The.38 was up.
Jack wondered if those kind eyes would be the last thing he ever saw. “I said you’re not getting the house.”
“Mr. Aberfoyle,” Zed interjected, smiling. “You’re a businessman. Let’s business.”
Aberfoyle allowed Zed to lead him a few steps away from Jack. “Boys. Eyes on that one.” Aberfoyle adjusted his jacket, gave Zed what was left of his patience. “Make it good and make it quick.”
“There’s a reason I requested you meet me here,” she said. “It’s the view.”
Paul glanced over the side. His depth perception telescoped hard enough to nudge his balance off-center. “Aim for the slope. Right.” He felt sick, closed his eyes.
“That gun you carry,” Zed was saying. “The one with the shiny bullets. You direct it toward a problem, pull the trigger, and that problem goes away. Click. Bang. Deleted.”
“I like that. I’m takin’ that one.”
“There’s a quote-apocryphal-attributed to Michelangelo. The Pope admired Michelangelo’s sculpture of David. He asked Michelangelo, ‘How did you do that?’ The story goes that Michelangelo replied, ‘I simply cut away everything that doesn’t look like David.’”
“I don’t get it.”
“Look at Riverport. You control so much of it. You didn’t build that control; you used your magic gun to cut away anything that didn’t look like control. Businesses. Careers. People.” Zed held up one finger. “I have a magic gun, too.” Cocked her thumb. “Click click.” She stretched her arm toward the horizon, pointed her magic finger at a lone warehouse close to the waterside. “A year ago your son was DJ’ing at a house party. A girl needed to charge her phone. He let her plug it into his laptop. He synched that phone, downloaded her photos, shared a few choice ones with his friends. One of the photos showed the girl and her boyfriend inside an industrial-grade hydroponic setup. Your boys followed her boyfriend, found the warehouse-the same warehouse my magic gun is pointing at right now.” She looked Aberfoyle in the eye. “Those two kids are dead. No one knows who did it, never will, and you have two more silver slugs in a jelly jar on your desk.”
Aberfoyle’s bottom lip devoured his top, blood vessels reddening around his nose. “Do you believe in God?”
“Click.”
Aberfoyle took a threatening step toward her.
“Bang.”
The warehouse went up in flames. Aberfoyle went from red to white.